


Skittles Tumblr Ficlets

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Bodyswap, Dubious Consent, Fake Marriage, Fucking Machines, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 39,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes I ask for prompts <a href="http://lozenger8.tumblr.com">on tumblr</a> and these are the results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bodyswap

No one realizes Scott and Stiles have switched because their impressions of one another are so perfect. Scott has the best time unleashing all the sarcasm he’s ever wanted to, but he never really manages to be mean. Stiles gives him pained looks when no one’s glancing their way, rolling his eyes as if in accusation. He says he’d thought the hardest part would be control, but really it’s been kindness.

Stiles collapses onto his bed at the end of the long first day.

"Literally everyone knows your name," he whines. It sounds weird in Scott’s voice. Which isn’t to say Scott never whines, because he absolutely does sometimes, but it’s the nature of the complaint. "For a second, I thought Liam was gonna hug me."

"But he didn’t?" Scott clarifies.

He’s gotten seven hugs from Liam in the last three months, all at varying degrees of closeness. He thinks it started out as a therapy thing and has escalated to genuine affection. He kinda likes it. He never thought he wanted a baby brother, because his parents argued enough over him, so the idea of there being another person caught up in that used to freak him out. But there’s something really gratifying about being a role model, about being given the opportunity to pass on hard-won advice. 

It also highlights for him all the ways he actually doesn’t think of Stiles as a brother, like he used to think he did. That was an uncomfortable revelation and hasn’t exactly been helped by occupying Stiles’ body. Stiles’ toned, lean, perpetually horny body. 

"He didn’t," Stiles confirms. "I might have accidentally growled at him."

"You didn’t upset him, did you? Stiles, remember Deaton telling us no one could know?"

"Nah, man, he laughed and cracked a joke about never once seeing you eat. He’s right, by the way. There is no way you take in enough energy. Being you is exhausting."

"Like being you isn’t? I fell off a chair in history today because I flailed so hard."

"I’ve been saying it for years — my limbs have a mind of their own."

"Yes! Dude, your hand’s obsessed with your junk, isn’t it? That’s not me?"

Stiles stretches up onto his elbows. “Uh, I’m more inclined to say it must be a bit of both,” he says, looking at Scott with the intense kind of scrutiny he usually gives test papers. It looks a little bloodlusty with Scott’s features. He does some kind of strange action with his hand that Scott only deciphers because he also says, “You wanna? I mean, c’mon, it’d be straight-up self-love. Nothing weird about that.”

Scott can feel the blush spreading up his chest and can imagine it splotching his cheeks. “I don’t think it’s weird either way,” he replies, Stiles’ voice sounding rich and husky.

Stiles dithers, eyes widening. He rocks upright, clutches onto the comforter. “I’m not hearing a no.”

"That’s because I’m saying yes."


	2. Loud Like Love (Fake Marriage)

"I don’t really remember what they were like," Stiles says, crossing his ankles and looking at his twiddling thumbs. "My parents," he clarifies, unnecessarily, but Scott gets why he wants to explain. "They were happy before Mom got sick, I think? Still kinda stressed ‘cause of Dad’s work, but, like, most Sundays we’d wake up late and eat waffles for lunch? You remember coming over?"

"Yeah," Scott murmurs. "I loved it. Compared to my house, it was peaceful, even if we did spend three hours running around making fake laser noises."

Stiles looks stricken for a second, darts a glance and then licks his lips. “Oh, yeah. Fuck, how could I forget?”

Scott knocks their knees together. “It’s okay. I like to forget, most days.”

"So I guess neither of us really know how we’re supposed to act, then? The disturbingly happily married couple."

Scott raises his eyebrows, thinks about it. He knows, but he doesn’t really want to say that they don’t have to act any different than usual. They’ve been mistaken for a couple nine times in the last four years, by visiting supernatural creatures and humans alike. The truth is, Scott wants this to be real, sometimes finds it hard to accept that it’s so close yet so far. It’ll be easy, he thinks, to wrap himself up in Stiles and show the world his love. Easy, but probably not advisable, because although it’ll help tomorrow, it’ll cause nothing but pain in the ensuing weeks.

"This whole bed cohabitation thing seems to be a good way to go about it," Scott says, replying to Stiles a beat too late.

"You’re only saying that because it’s easier than spraying me with your scent."

Scott snorts. “You’re disgusting. But accurate.”

They cuddle up together, Stiles’ arm lying against his chest, his stomach plastered to Scott’s side. His breathing is as irregular as it’s always been, his heart has its telltale skip. It lulls Scott into a sense of security that he’s hoping against hope isn’t false.

*

The next day they’re up early enough the light is thin. Stiles is cute when he’s sleepy, clothes rumpled and hair a mess. He smacks his lips together, blinks slowly. 

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey," Scott says facetiously. 

"I prefer hand off snakey," Stiles replies mid-yawn.

"Dude, we both know that’s not true, not even a little."

Stiles grants him one of his rare genuine smiles, nudges with his elbow. Scott could get used to that look being cast in his direction. 

"Did I thank you yet?" Stiles asks as he dresses. Scott doesn’t bother averting his eyes. They’ve seen one another strip and dress hundreds of times. If he’s covertly enjoying the show, that’s between him and his conscience. 

"What for?"

"Oh, I don’t know, going against your moral code to lie and deceive for me?"

"Stiles, I’d die for you. Pretending to be your husband so you can stick it to your nosy neighbor is nothing."

Stiles pinks, taking a noticeable swallow before he speaks again. “You remember where you were supposed to have been?”

"Australia. But there’s no way I’m saying I was herding kangaroos in the outback, because unlike you I meticulously plan my lies. I worked as a substitute teacher in Adelaide and only saw kangaroos at the zoo.”

"Where the hell’s Adelaide?"

"Exactly."

*

Scott’s correct, it is easy, and they don’t have to do much different at all. Mrs Breckenridge interrogates him, but she seems to believe them. There’s a verisimilitude to their lies that’s greatly aided by the fact Scott wishes they were true.

The kiss gets out of hand. It’s not filthy, but it’s involving. It has the perfect amount of teeth and tongue. Scott moans into it, enjoying the heat and softness of Stiles’ lips. 

The idea behind the kiss was to make them seem like a real couple, like they weren’t simply acting for Mrs Breckenridge in order to get her to leave Stiles alone. When she was out of the room getting her Samsung Galaxy Note II to show them the beautiful daughter she kept trying to marry off to Stiles, they leaned in close and put lips against lips. It spiraled from there.

Scott has to physically restrain himself from springing away when the old woman pointedly coughs.

"You two sicken me," she says. In a different tone, Scott might be halfway to a roar, but she sounds utterly indulgent and heartwarmed. "Makes me miss my late husband Robbie. Thick as a bible, but gee he had great ass."

*

Back in Stiles’ new house, Scott brews a pot of coffee while Stiles paces.

"Kissing occurred," Stiles states, like he’s debriefing, like Scott wasn’t there.

"It sure did," Scott says with a chuckle, because he’s over pretending he doesn’t want Stiles that way, this way, all the ways.

“Something you need to be telling me?” Stiles asks, like Scott’s the only one who’s been keeping something locked up tight and he’s mortally offended by that.

"Maybe. Probably. Definitely."

“You could’ve come out and said it, y’know? I wanna be your buttsex buddy. I wanna dingle your dangle. I wanna juice your goose.” Stiles winks.

It’s classic Stiles, deflection 101 and it makes Scott want to retaliate. He steps forward, smooths a hand over Stiles’ jaw.

“But that’s so crude. I wanna make love with you, Stiles,” he says seriously. There’s a certain illicit thrill in beating Stiles at his own game.“I wanna give your body the tender affection it craves. Cover you in delicate kisses. Give you my all.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, purses his lips. Scott can tell he’s considering his comeback. He feels proud that he’s reduced Stiles to having to think of a retort rather than firing back with a cutting remark. And because he’s getting better at going in for the kill, Scott leans in and presses a kiss against the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

“Let’s fuck,” he whispers, grinning at Stiles’ slight, sharp intake of breath. He doesn’t think it was faked.

“Who’s crude now?”

“I prefer to think of it as direct.”

“Direct, my ass,” Stiles says with a scoff and a raise of his eyebrow.

“Okay, my pleasure.” Scott gently cups his hands against Stiles’ butt and pulls him closer.

Stiles looks alight with amusement. “You’re incorrigible when you’re on a roll.”

Scott rolls his hips forward and raises his eyebrows at the same time. Stiles gusts out a laugh, pushes a hand into the hair at the back of his head. He tugs him in for a kiss. They both have their eyes open, so it should be totally awkward, but it isn’t. Scott looks at Stiles for another beat before closing his eyes and widening his mouth to let Stiles deepen the kiss.

Scott thinks he has a pretty good handle on what chaste means by now, years of experience under his belt, and this isn’t it. Stiles kisses like he may never get another shot, like he wants to explore everything at once, and while part of Scott wants to reassure him and tell him he could slow down, the biggest part is enjoying how Stiles takes him over until all he can focus on are Stiles’ lips, tongue and hands.

They don’t end up totally stripping out of their clothes as they bring each other off; too frantic, too focused, too turned on. They can’t waste another second and they don’t. Stiles pants hotly against his neck and Scott nuzzles into his shoulder. The curve of Stiles’ long fingers is utterly irresistible against his cock and Scott trembles as he comes.

"So you realize you actually have to live here now?" Stiles intones drowsily after they’ve cleaned up and gotten into bed to wait for round two.

"Is that an offer or a demand?"

"Both."

"All right," Scott says with a smile. "I’m happy to continue the charade of the disturbingly happily married couple with you. For as long as it takes.”

"That might be forever."

"I’d be okay with that."


	3. Can't Stop Now (Secretly a Virgin)

“Wait, how is this possible?”

“There are all kinds of different ways to have sex, Stiles.”

“Yeah, but, Allison.”

Scott frowns. “We fooled around in multiple positions, but we were more… oral.”

“Kira.”

“Kira’s asexual. She’s up for kissing and hugs, but not really penetration.”

“You’re blowing my mind here,” Stiles says, fingers quivering.

Scott stares at them, tongue suddenly feeling too large for his mouth. Stiles’ blotchy chest is rising and falling rapidly, his stomach going concave then convex. His scent twists from turned on to terrified and Scott knows he has to salvage the situation.

“Look, we don’t need to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I just – it never occurred to me that I’d be your first. What if I’m awful? What if I cramp up? What if it’s uncomfortable because you don’t know how to thrust and I’ve only ever taken fingers before?”

“I know how to thrust, I just haven’t done it into someone before.” Scott wrinkles his nose, shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Anyway, nothing’s perfect the first time. I’m good with this being something that takes time and practice. Lots of practice, if necessary. Regular, sustained practice.”

Scott smiles reassuringly, kisses Stiles’ jaw.

“Okay. Yeah. Of course.”

They kiss more, deep and filthy, but Scott can tell Stiles is still preoccupied. He doesn’t take over and demand like he usually does, doesn’t try to drive Scott wild. He participates, but he doesn’t lead. It’s unnerving.

“We could always do this the other way around,” Scott offers, dragging his fingers over Stiles’ forearms and entwining their hands. He leans their foreheads together, breathes against his cheek. “That way, at least one of us would know what he’s doing.”

“I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you,” Stiles mutters, biting at his own lips.

Scott pecks him quickly. “This is new for us and we might get it wrong, so I understand your hesitation. But I want this. I want you. Whatever way you’re willing to give.”

There’s a spike in Stiles’ heartbeat and then he’s clutching Scott’s fingers tighter.

“You’re sure?” he checks.

“You are never this insecure,” Scott reminds him. “And you implied that you trust me. So yeah, I’m sure. I’m ready if you are.”

Stiles’ voice goes molten. “You’re not ready. Want me to prep you?”

Scott’s stomach swoops and then he’s moving up and off, kneeling on the bed. He glances at Stiles, quirks an eyebrow in query. Stiles is in the middle of gathering up pillows, but he pauses mid-grapple to give him a small, affectionate smile. There are some awkward adjustments and then they arrange themselves, Scott trying hard not to giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation.

When Scott gets into position, he feels more naked somehow, exposed. His cock hardens against one of the pillows, his breath is expelled in quick pants.  


“You should see yourself, you look amazing,” Stiles says, hushed.

He scratches lightly against the backs of Scott’s thighs, brushes his thumbs over his ass. Scott widens his legs some more, wanting to make this as easy as possible. Stiles’ heartbeat is still rocketing, but his scent’s back to anticipation rather than fear, joy rather than reluctance. Scott made the right choice.

He hears the snick of the lube opening and rests his chin on his forearms, moaning softly when Stiles starts to gently work slicked up fingers over his hole. Stiles drizzles more lube and it’s cold enough to make Scott’s abs lurch, but warms up quickly under Stiles’ ministrations.

Scott’s fingered himself before, but it’s different when someone else does it, when they have an intention that’s more than idle curiosity. This is something Stiles is skilled in, confident. He works up to two fingers in no time, with no pain and very little discomfort. Scott imagines what Stiles’ fingers must look like as they open him up, how his rim must be stretching, pink around his knuckles.

“How’re you feeling?” Stiles asks, fingers rocking in and out now, glancing against Scott’s prostate in a way that’s decidedly not accidental.

“So good,” Scott replies with something that sounds like a slur, but isn’t. He wriggles, cock smearing precome against his stomach and the material beneath him. “You?”

“Same.” There’s a laugh in Stiles’ voice and then kisses against the nubs of Scott’s spine.

Scott loves this. He’s the strangest combination of relaxed and desperate, body caught up in competing sensations. Part of him wants to ask Stiles to stop waiting, to tell him he wants more. Another part is happy with this; the heat of Stiles’ fingers in him, the soft but insistent pressure. He thinks if he rutted more he could come like this.

The tip of Stiles’ third finger has him groaning, not because it hurts, but because he wants it so much.

“All right?” Stiles asks, sounding worried this time.

“No, I think you’re melting my brain,” Scott says, canting his hips. He mouths against his forearm, brings his other hand down to curl around himself. He doesn’t care that what he’s about to say is stupid, it has to be said. “I think I need your cock now.”

Stiles eases his fingers out and Scott hates the emptiness, but he arches his back the way Stiles guides him to, slides his knees wider still. He has to hold onto the sheets with one hand, hold onto the base of his cock with the other, or this’ll be over in the next second. Stiles’ cock feels impossibly wide against his hole, but Scott knows he’ll take his time. Stiles has been so careful — in a way he isn’t always, in a way that makes Scott feel loved.

“Oh my God, Scotty, you feel so perfect,” Stiles says, breathy. His fingers tighten against Scott’s hips as he pushes steadily in.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, because he’s already a little beyond holding a conversation. “Like that, Stiles. That feels right, that feels good.”

Stiles draws out and then pushes in again, pressing deeper this time. Scott’s aware he’s drooling all over his arm, but he doesn’t care. He shudders into another firm shove, thinks again about how they must look. He wants there to be a mirror, next time, or for them to be facing each other — wants to _know_ that Stiles’ eyes are screwed shut like he thinks they are, that sweat’s dripping down his nose, that his cheeks are deep pink.

Stiles begins to properly thrust into him with small, choked off grunts and Scott starts to stroke himself off. He wonders why he never dreamed of this, before, why he didn’t ask for it sooner. Stiles is hot and hard within him, filling him up completely, and Scott’s never been so happy to be this overwhelmed. The slap of their skin echos and Scott gasps in thick breaths of sweet musk. He teases at the head of his cock, gritting his teeth at the pleasure-pain.

For a first time, it’s everything. His legs are getting sore, but he’s withstood far worse; the slip and slide of it’s weird, but it’s a good weird. He loves the weight of Stiles against him, within him, around him. He’s going to come any second, palm wet just from his own sweat and precome, balls starting to draw up tight. Stiles reaches around and guides his wrist, dropping down over him and mouthing at his back. The change in angle has him constantly pressed up against nerves that _sing_ with the sensation and Scott can’t help it, he spills all over his knuckles into the bedding, muscles going taut and jittery. He’s pretty positive his eyes roll back into his head. He sucks in deep lungfuls and his throat’s raspy; he thinks he must’ve called out Stiles’ name. It’s so good, the kind of ache that goes right down to the bones, but with an electric zing that has him wanting more.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Stiles praises, as Scott stretches out and goes loose. Stiles slows down his thrusts and grinds in. “Pliant and open and accepting. I don’t deserve you.”

Stiles’ grinding stops being rhythmic after a short while and he slumps down even more, which Scott assumes is an indication that he’s come, but he’s not sure. He eases back with his hips and glances over his shoulder. Stiles is blissed out, eyes half-closed and face a damp, heated-looking mess. He’s never looked better.

Stiles pulls out after another few minutes, and it’s uncomfortable and bizarre, but Scott will get used to it. He tentatively presses his fingers over his hole, gusts out a breath at how open and wet it feels. Stiles is tying a knot in the condom he was wearing and Scott thinks about how much wetter he’d be if he hadn’t. Stiles watches him, follows his gaze and levels him with a calculating stare that makes Scott’s throat go dry.

Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he bends over Scott and helps him move onto his back, his eyes are dark and fond.

“You okay?”

“Apparently, I’m perfect,” Scott says, grinning wide and sated. He arches his body like a cat, rolls his shoulders and his wrists.

He expects Stiles to tell him to shut up, but that doesn’t happen. “Yeah, you kinda are,” Stiles says instead, collapsing next to him. He nuzzles into Scott’s neck, presses a kiss. “Sorry I overreacted. You’re right, this isn’t a big deal.”

“No, it is,” Scott argues. “I was wrong. But I think it’s the type of big deal we can handle.”

“I think next time I’d be okay with switching back to our original intention, if you want?”

“Not next time. The time after that? Or after that? One of the future times, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Scott hums, closes his eyes. “But that needs to be later, ‘cause I wanna sleep.”

Stiles snorts and strokes his hair, tightens his hold, and Scott thinks about the fact the word first implies many more to come.


	4. Missed -- Understandings (jock!Scott, nerd!Stiles Human-AU)

Starting at a new school sucks ass. And not in the fun kind of way that ends with a bang and a whimper. Beacon Hills is tiny compared to Santa Barbara and he’d thought Santa Barbara was way too small. This is the type of place where it feels like everybody knows your name, and his dad was just elected Sheriff, so it’s probably true. The stares he gets aren’t a figment of his imagination. 

Stiles ambles down the hallway with his head bowed and his thumbs tucked into his backpack straps. His contacts have been irritating his eyes in the last couple of weeks, so he’s wearing his glasses, and because he’s only ever used them for home they’re not the stylish, hipster brand of chunky black that everybody wears, they’re an unironic chunky black that no one could wear with panache. He’s also broken out all over his chin and jaw, acne no doubt spreading because of his nervous habit of scratching. He basically looks like every Hollywood cliché of a nerd and he’s painfully aware of it. 

He misses his friends. All two of them. He knows how this goes. They start off skyping and snapchatting every couple of days, and then once a week and then once a month and before they know it, they’ve drifted. So maybe he’s pre-empting that by not returning any of Erica and Isaac’s texts and chat requests, but screw it, he’s always been one for self-determinism. 

Because he’s looking down, he doesn’t see the dude blocking his path until he’s bowling him over. At least the other guy’s wearing padding. He’s also got on some kind of red sports jersey and shorts. Stiles notices this from his position sprawled on top of him. This is awkward with a capital fuck.

“You all right?” the guy asks, sounding harsh-voiced and wheezing. His dark eyes are narrowed at Stiles, staring at him from top to toe, and you know what? No. Screw this. It’s not like he was looking where he was going either. Stiles cannot be held wholly to blame.

“Are you?” he asks back with a sneer, springing upright again and continuing on his way. He’s totally not going to limp, even though he cracked his knee into the concrete flooring and it’s hurting like hell. 

“Hey,” a voice calls, but Stiles ignores it. 

He doesn’t need some jerkwad pushing him around. Bad enough that he has to start his life all over again. Bad enough that he has to do it at a distinct disadvantage, as a Junior, when everyone else has figured out the social politics and strange teacher quirks that’ll rule their lives. But to also find himself at the receiving end of some jock asshole’s ire? Nuh uh, not today. Not ever.

*

Scott doesn’t know why the new kid seemingly hates him, but he does. Ever since they crashed into each other, Stilinski glares at him mistrustfully. Not just a small scowl either, but a full-blown glower. It’s kinda scary. He seriously has no clue why asking someone if they’re okay is tantamount to calling for their slaughter. Maybe Stilinski didn’t like the way Scott was examining him, but he’s used to assessing damage with a quick sweep of his eyes. He wasn’t trying to undress him with his gaze or anything. He totally wouldn’t do that without permission.

In the cafeteria, when Scott asks if he’s sitting alone, Stilinski gestures to the empty seats around him and mutters something about his invisible gang. When Scott offers him a spot at his table, Stiles says something about not wanting to contaminate the clique. When Scott tries to give him a pen in English, because it’s clear he can’t find his, Stilinski turns it down in favor of obnoxiously asking the teacher if she has one. 

He shoulders past Scott in the library, ignores him outside econ, snickers at his attempt to compliment his Marvel shirt, scoffs at his bike at home time. Maybe -- well, probably -- he’s got an attitude problem, but Scott remembers what it’s like to be an outcast so he’s gonna keep trying, despite the fact Boyd and Malia told him he shouldn’t.

“Oh, hey, uh, Zerbignew?” Scott says, sliding next to his locker and smiling his most beguiling smile. “I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Scott.”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“My name’s Stiles.”

“No offense, dude, but your name’s spelled really weird for how it’s said,” Scott says with a frown. He can sometimes get a little sidetracked. He’s been made aware of this a few times.

“It’s not said tha – it’s the name I go by because no one can say my real name correctly,” Stiles says with the least impressed expression Scott’s ever seen on anyone ever and a flappy hand gesture. “What do you want?” 

“Lacrosse tryouts are tomorrow night and I’ve got it on great authority that you’re solidly built, so I was wondering if you were maybe thinking of giving it a shot.”

Stiles looks at him steadily, like he’s waiting for something. Scott doesn’t know what to do with the lack of response, so he shuffles from side to side, literally wrong-footed. 

“You don’t have to come. It isn’t mandatory. I just thought it’d be fun.”

“Yeah, real fun, laughing at the uncoordinated nerd,” Stiles spits out.

“What? No. I would never—” Scott’s saying, but Stiles is already stomping away. 

Scott’s confused. He’s also seen Stiles’ back one too many times, so he runs up, goes past, skids into his way. Stiles flinches, then stares, mouth downturned. He looks like he’s adopted a defensive position and the hand Scott had been going to reach out collapses against his side.

“I don’t know what your last school was like, or who you think I am, but I’m not out to cause you any harm. I mentioned the lacrosse tryouts because I’m the captain and we’re down six players this season. I thought it might make it easier for you to get to know people.”

Stiles still looks like he’s waiting for the punchline. Scott takes a step back, shrugs his shoulder. 

“Nevermind. This was clearly one of my worst ideas. I won’t bother you again.”

Scott turns and walks away, mentally kicking himself for whatever it was he did to make Stiles hate him on sight.

“Are they straight after school? The tryouts?” Stiles’ raised voice asks. Scott spins on his heel, heart beating three times faster at the concession, small though it is.

“Yeah, pretty much. Gotta wait for Coach, but I’ll be on the pitch with the spare sticks, if you wanna practice?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, pointing toward an open door and then sauntering in its direction. Scott knows for a fact he’s going the wrong way, since he’s got Chemistry across the hall from him, but he feels like telling Stiles that would be pushing his luck, so he walks away, thinking about Stiles’ reaction when he realizes what’s happened.

*

Stiles does his homework. Not his actual homework, because it’s boring and he covered most of it already back home. No, Stiles does his Scott McCall homework. Then he really sorta wishes he hadn’t, because he now realizes he’s been a dick. Perhaps even worse than that. He had thought he was protecting himself from Scott’s harrassment? The best defense is an offense, after all. Turns out his version of offensive was just insulting. From all the accounts he’s gathered; from staff, students, Martha who works at the corner store; Scott is a ray of sunshine. Ugh.

And now he thinks about all the times Scott ‘accosted’ him, and he really doesn’t know why he didn’t realize this before. He should apologize. He’s not going to, but he should.

He spends the next day waiting to see Scott. Every class seems interminable. Weirdly, this is the first day at this hellhole of a school where he hasn’t seen Scott. He doesn’t have English or econ, so there’s no reason for them to run into each other. 

Soon as the bell sounds, he’s on his way to the lacrosse pitch. There’s a group of boys and girls there already, most of them freshmen. There’s a girl he shares two of his classes with called Kira, but she’s talking to a tall black guy and doesn’t notice him waving at her. He automatically feels like a fish out of water and other apt analogies. Frog in the sky? Booger on a plate? He feels surplus to requirements and damned if that isn’t how he’s always felt, even back home. 

“You made it!” Scott says, sounding way too enthusiastic considering Stiles has been nothing but an asshole to him since they met. Stiles still can’t help but wonder whether this is all an elaborate trick, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. 

“Yeah, I sure did,” Stiles replies, wincing at how pathetic he sounds. 

Scott looks wary, like he too is worried this is a set-up. He nods at the crowd as if he’s going to excuse himself and suddenly, powerfully, Stiles doesn’t want him to go. 

“You said we could practice?” he asks. “I brought my own stick.” He waves it to illustrate the point.

“You’ve played before?” Scott asks with an expression that isn’t so guarded. It does weird things to Stiles’ stomach. Where did that come from? He has no idea. He’s gonna ignore it for as long as humanly possible.

“Yeah. Kind of. Practiced before, certainly. You’re looking at the resident benchwarmer of the San Marcos Royals.”

“Ah, you’re looking at the former freshman year benchwarmer of the Beacon Hills Cyclones,” Scott says with a twinkle in his eye. “The awesome thing people don’t realize about us benchwarmers is that while all the other players are learning the game running around, exhausted and sweaty, we’re learning strategy and technique while comfortably seated.”

Stiles usually prides himself on his ability to make accurate snap judgements, but he was so wrong about Scott. So, so wrong. He realizes he’s smiling a beat later, scuffs against the grass and bites his lip. 

“You wanna practice passing?” he asks. He wants to be asking something else.

*

It turns out that when Stiles isn’t glaring at him, he can be, like, personable. And cute. He tells Scott the goofiest pasta joke he’s ever heard and doesn’t get bored at Scott’s rejoinder of the long library-visiting chicken joke. Stiles tells him a little about Santa Barbara, Scott tells him a lot about Beacon Hills. It’s nice.

Stiles’ groan and eyeroll when Coach finally appears on the pitch is one of the funniest things Scott’s seen in weeks. Scott wants to stay around him longer, but he has to lead the drills, so he’s dragged away too soon for his liking and coerced into showing the newbies what to do. The rest of the afternoon is an endless succession of demonstration, evaluation, and working hard on not ignoring everyone else in order to look over at Stiles. He can already tell he’s going to go against his moral code and beg Coach to let Stiles on the team. He’s never done that before, not even for Cora Hale, and she threatened him, with menace. But he could see why Stiles was a benchwarmer, especially when they graduated from passing to trying to score goals, yet he could also see Stiles’ strengths -- or at least, that’s how he’s justifying it. 

Coach is writing up the list of contenders and Scott’s about to suggest Stiles, when he sees ‘Bilinski’ is already being written down. Scott gives a little fistpump and goes to tell Stiles the good news. Stiles is standing talking to Danny, which is awesome, he’s already making friends. Scott sidles on up, but something he hears in Stiles’ tone, a bitter kind of mockery, makes him stop before he can be noticed.

“… took one look at him and decided he was a meatheaded idiot…” Stiles is saying, scratching at his neck.

Danny frowns at him, cuts in. “Scott’s the best,” he returns, but Scott doesn’t wait around to hear anymore. He and Danny go way back and he knows he’ll defend him, but obviously that’ll do nothing to dissuade Stiles.

He feels like a meathead. And an idiot. Obviously he was expecting too much. He’s been told before that he trusts too easily, always tries to see the good in people, even when it doesn’t exist. This is obviously another example of that. 

Scott rides home, orders pizza, puts on his favorite movies and doesn’t mope. Some new kid hates him, so what? They hardly know each other. There are plenty of people who see him for who he really is. He may not be perfect, but at least he’s not a buttface. He refuses to get upset over this. When his mom gets home from her shift she makes him double chocolate cocoa with marshmallows, which indicates his refusal may not be working, but Scott simply takes slow sips and nestles his head onto her shoulder without saying a word. She seems to understand.

*

Scott doesn’t see him during English, which makes thanking him for the invitation to the tryouts difficult. Stiles had a great time, made tons of new acquaintances who could become friends, and got to see Scott in all his sweaty, athletic glory. It was a win, in his book. Plus, he made the team. The actual team. It’s like a dream he never dared to have come true. At lunchtime Scott’s sitting alone at the cafeteria, so Stiles walks up with his tray.

“Mind if I join you?”

Scott looks up at him like he’s some foreign object. “This table’s reserved.”

“Oh? You couldn’t find space for me?” Stiles asks, immediately regretting it on realizing Scott’s not playfully teasing him, but serious.

“Nope,” Scott says. “Figuring out how you’d fit is a little beyond me.”

Stiles wonders if he’s in some kind of nightmare as he stumbles away. He watches as other lacrosse players join Scott, a few of whom look like the freshmen at the tryouts, and picks at his sloppy joe when they start to chat and laugh. There’s an obvious gap at the end of one of the benches. 

Stiles spends the next several hours trying to puzzle out what he said or did to change Scott from warm and friendly to cold and cruel. Maybe he simply wanted more blood for the team and wasn’t afraid to employ seduction to get it. But that goes against everything he’s heard and heretofore seen. He can’t help but think that it’s through his action, or inaction, that Scott’s suddenly turned the tables. He scans his mind, going over their interactions, still comes up empty. 

The rest of the week is much the same. Scott ignores him every time he attempts to talk. It makes him want to retaliate. This is what lifelong rivalries are born from, he thinks. He finally skypes Erica and Isaac back. He also joins the mathletics team, on their suggestion. They say it’s because it’ll give him a chance to compete against his old crush Lydia, who is the leader of the San Marcos team, but he thinks it’s because they’re worried he’s becoming a shut-in. 

On Saturday morning there’s lacrosse practice and Stiles decides he’s going to confront this head-on. While Scott doesn’t tell him to fuck off with words, his curt glance suggests he’s projecting that thought with his mind. 

“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” Stiles ventures. 

Scott crinkles his nose at him and it’s so adorable, Stiles feels like a jerk all over again. “Really? ‘cause I think you made yourself pretty clear.”

“But I came to tryouts?” Stiles says. “We hung out. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and then you told Danny what you really thought of me, so---”

“Wait, what? What’s he been saying about me? I also admitted how much of a prick I’ve been, did he leave that part out?”

“I overheard you,” Scott says, looking angry. Already Stiles can tell the expression is rarely seen on his face. It looks so wrong with his features, at odds with the person he’s shown himself to be.

Stiles blinks at him, finds his voice going hushed. “Saying what?”

“How I’m a meathead,” Scott says, sounding hurt.

“I was saying that I couldn’t believe I’d thought you were a meathead,” Stiles says. “I was saying that I’d been an asshole to you for no good reason, that I’d made false assumptions about you and your intentions toward me, and I was quickly realizing the error of my ways.”

Scott’s expression smooths out. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Stiles concedes, nodding. He thinks he may be able to salvage this after all.

“But why? Why did you think my intentions toward you were anything other than what they were --which was welcoming, by the way. Like, I don’t think I said or did anything that’d indicate I was gonna stuff you into a locker, which is how you acted.”

“Because what are the chances the hot guy would be talking to me if it weren’t to bully me?”

Scott beams at him, beatific. It’s unreasonably beautiful. “You think I’m hot?”

“The hottest,” Stiles says simply.

“I was talking to you because I didn’t want you to feel lonely at your new school. The fact that I think you’re hot too is merely a coincidence,” Scott says, grin slipping into a small smile that Stiles wants to see again and again. 

“Does my hotness result in my forgiveness?”

“Does mine?”

“To be honest, I don’t think looking good should result in anything except boners, but the fact you’re a warm and kind-hearted person leads me to say yes.”

Scott chuckles and visibly blushes. “Are you always this inappropriate?”

“Frequently.”

“Then also yes.”

Lacrosse practice starts. They buddy up for the drills. It feels right, feels good. Stiles finally feels like he might be able to make a home here. 

*

Scott’s never been very patient, or good at denying himself what he wants, so he asks Stiles on a date within the month. He’s ten seconds too late, because Stiles is already asking him, but it’s the thought that counts. Everyone who knows them groans in relief, with Liam being particularly vocal, and Allison offering to shoot Stiles full of arrows if he hurts Scott. 

He wonders how things might’ve been different if they’d never met, or if they’d always known each other, but he likes the way things are. He likes sharing secrets with Stiles, likes learning new things about him and his interests, likes being opened up to new worlds.

“We should definitely skip The Phantom Menace?” 

“Absolutely. For sure. I’ll summarize it for you. In 25 words or fewer, if you want.”

Scott leans over and kisses him on the cheek, stealing a handful of popcorn at the same time. “You’re such a nerd.”

“If you’re gonna bully me, you could at least pin me down when you do it.”

“That comes later,” Scott promises, swallowing thickly soon after, already picturing it. 

“You’re undressing me with your eyes again, aren’t you?”

“Only if you want me to be?”

Stiles sprawls out wider alongside him, gives him his most mischievous of smirks. “Undress away.”

Scott smiles at him, steals more of his popcorn. Okay, so maybe he’s kind of bullying Stiles. Covertly torturing him, at the very least. Because he knows all they both really want is to be making out, sliding their bodies close and gripping tight, but he’s gonna delay it and prevaricate until Stiles can’t take it any longer. He might fundamentally be kind, but that doesn’t mean he’s perfect, and Stiles has the best way of bringing out the worst in him. He doesn’t mind at all.


	5. Parallel World Not!fic

So it goes a little something like this: 

One day Stiles walks around the corner and runs straight into Scott, which isn’t actually something he’d usually do, because he seems to have a secret Spidey Scott sense, a little tingle along the fine hairs of his neck when Scott’s around, but this time it doesn’t work, they crash and collide. He’s being set upright, is about to say what he came to Scott’s house to say, when he realizes Scott’s hair is longer, shaggy, falling into his eyes. And then there’s a “hey Stiles” from his left and he swivels to see Scott yet again.

'Oh my God' are the only words that spring to mind. “Oh my God!” Stiles says, blinking rapidly. “Cloning spell? Alien pod-people invasion? Polyjuice potion? Robots?” 

"Parallel worlds," the Scott by his right side says, giving him an exasperatedly fond smile. 

"Mirrorverse," Stiles says with a nod.

"Do I look like I have a goatee?" 

"That’s exactly what an evil version of you would say."

"Neither of us is evil," the Scott to Stiles’ left, Stiles’ Scott says.

"I very much like that you knew that was my next suggestion," Stiles says. "Very much. But seriously, what the hell?"

"Bored now," the other Scott says, then cracks up giggling.

*

It’s the most confusing thing at first, of course. The hair helps. Parallel world Scott also reverted back to Melissa’s maiden name when his dad left, so he’s Scott Delgado rather than McCall. Stiles decides to think in last names from then on, to make everything simpler in his tired and overcrowded mind. He actually doesn’t succeed, settling more into a pattern of calling his Scott by his first name and the other Delgado.

Then he meets parallel him. He’s back to thinking mirrorverse, to be honest, because parallel him is kind of a dick, but he has it on good authority (everyone other than Scott’s) that that is par for the course. 

"Just remember — perfectly symmetrical violence never solved anything," Scott says one time when Stiles is ranting about what he terms the pale imitation of himself.

The parallels are there because of a spell gone wrong and get to work with Deaton to try and correct it. Meanwhile, Stiles rolls his eyes at them constantly. They’re always so in sync. They move in the same way, they use the same phrases completely independent of each other, they make different decisions — but by using exactly the same reasoning. It’s disconcerting. 

"They think they’re so cute, with the fistbumps and the handshakes and the injokes. It sickens me to my core."

"They’re literally you," Derek says in response, expression surprisingly neutral considering he just found out Laura’s still alive in the parallel world and Cora’s living with them in Beacon Hills. His story is a whole new narrative, with twists and turns and familial bonding, but he’s here basically acting as a deadpan prop.

"There’s only one us," Stiles replies reflexively, "Right, Scotty?"

"Yeah," Scott says, sounding distracted. "Also, there are some… differences between us and them."

Stiles looks where he’s looking and - yup - Delgado and Stilinski 2: Electric Boogaloo are locking lips, hands sliding places, bodies twining. It’s obvious this isn’t a first for them, not even close. 

They’re together. Together together. Boyfriends as well as best friends.

Malia repeatedly states how hot they are. Lydia seems to be judging them and surprisingly not finding them wanting. Liam simply looks horrified while Mason looks intrigued.

Now this is where Stiles feels even more bitter towards his counterpart, because he’s never said this, never admitted it out loud, but he wants what they have. He’s always wanted it. He didn’t think he was allowed to want it, so he pushed it down deep inside and only let it out in the form of a joke. It’s actually kinda torturous watching them.

"How’d you two become one?" he asks Delgado a day later. He asks Delgado because he still finds Second Stilinski annoying, even though they usually agree on everything. Maybe it’s because they agree? It always makes one or other of them want to play Devil’s advocate, which leads to bickering.

"By accident, mostly. The nemeton created a soulbond between us and for a month we couldn’t be more than, like, 100 yards apart without excruciating pain. You can probably imagine all the ways that sucked. But it was sort of great too? There was lots of cuddling, and hand-holding, and secret-telling. It was — it was _nice_ in a way that I hadn’t had for the longest time. Since I almost died of an asthma attack. I started to realize some things about us I’d never thought of before. Anyway, because we couldn’t really do _anything_ without being close, Stiles had gotten a little — well I’m gonna say stir-crazy, but I’m guessing you know what I mean. One day he offered to make out with me and I shocked him by saying yes.”

"I offered to make out with my Scott once. He didn’t seem impressed."

"If it makes you feel any better, we spent two weeks after breaking the bond not talking because we each thought the other had been unfairly influenced by the nemeton."

"But you hadn’t," Stiles says, tone questioning. Delgado shoves him to the side with a playful push. "Just checking."

"Sorry, dude. I don’t know if your Scott could ever feel the same way about you that you feel about him. I’d like to think so. But maybe we’re different enough that it isn’t possible. It’s that whole nature versus nurture thing."

"What makes you think I feel anything about him that would warrant your pity?"

Delgado stares at him. “I’ve looked at you.”

"Yeah. Fair point."

"He still loves you though. You know that, don’t you?"

"Yeah," Stiles says with a sigh. "That’s enough. More than enough."

*

Delgado and Stiles-the-Sequel take Derek with them when they figure out how to hop back to their world. It’s a return trip for Derek, they’re able to journey from one world to the next without huge difficulties thanks to the grounding influence of the nemeton. Deaton says it’s because they’ve already sacrificed so much and that’s gratifying in a truly horrible, depressing way. (When Derek comes back, he brings Allison for a visit. There are a lot of tears. Too many.)

And Stiles would like to think he’s fine. He is. He’s okay. He’s gotten through this before. The pain never lasts for long. He always finds some way to suppress it, to stop thinking about it, to accept that he has this and not that. But it’s harder this time, now that he’s seen how great they’d be together. Now that he’s seen what it’d look like to wrap Scott up in his arms, to press kisses against his cheek, forehead, lips, to tug gently on his hair to get him where he wants. Now that The Stiles Strikes Back decided it’d be awesome to take him aside and tell him shameless sex stories of having his Scott’s legs hiked around him and how he lost himself in his tight, clenching heat.

Kira tries to cheer him up by challenging him to lightsaber battles. She doesn’t let him win, though. Kira’s a sweetheart, but she’s competitive. They watch the sixth season of _The Clone Wars_ together, while also eating their weight in popcorn. 

"I think you should tell him," she says, three quarters into the night. She isn’t looking at his face, but her expression is open and kind as she watches the screen. 

"I’m not even gonna pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about," Stiles says. "But really?"

"Yes," Kira says, definitively. 

"Saying this doesn’t make you feel awful? I mean, I thought you were…?"

"We were, but now we’re not, and you both deserve to be as happy as I am."

That’s enough for Stiles. Kira knows Scott in ways he doesn’t yet. And that yet is important because it makes him believe — makes him hope. If Kira thinks him talking about it with Scott will help, perhaps there’s a chance.

*

And we come to my favorite part. This is the part where Stiles’ heart is in his throat and his hands are twitching by his sides and his lungs are squeezing tight. This is the part where he’s just going to jump in feet first, because, fuckdammit, every other risk he’s taken lately has been life or death and either way this cookie crumbles, he’s left with something good. Because even if the answer’s no, at least then he _knows_ and he can move on.

Except Stiles doesn’t even get a word out before Scott’s shuffling close and looking terribly, heartwrenchingly earnest.

"Been a busy couple of weeks," Scott says, like he’s saying so much more.

"Hectic," Stiles agrees.

"Strange, too, getting to see us from the outside."

"Not exactly us."

"No, but close enough. And — maybe it could be?" Scott says, because he, too is a risk-taker. 

"What do you mean?" Stiles asks, because he needs to _clarify_. (Or perhaps tease.)

"I think you know, Stiles."

"I might wanna hear you say it."

"Can I show you instead?"

Stiles nods his response, vigorously, because his throat’s failing him. 

So it goes a little something like this: 

Scott steps close and lowers Stiles’ jaw half an inch with a soft but firm guide of his hand. He tilts his head up a fraction and looks into his eyes intently. He presses their mouths together in a sweet, warm, passionate kiss that has Stiles clutching at one of his shoulders. Stiles can’t help but want to deepen it, pausing for a second to check if that’s all right. Scott moans a yes and they keep kissing like all the worlds around them have stopped.


	6. My Oh My

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "for some reason/at some point Stiles/Scott are getting hot&heavy and Stiles makes the comment "Can't wait for Allison/Kira to get back, huh?" and Scott is all /hurt/ because he thought Stiles and him were dating?"

Scott was basking in warm lassitude, whole body pleasantly sore. He gazed at Stiles, lying in the crook of his arm, playing with the moon charm necklace he’d gotten Scott as a joke. Scott never took it off. When Liam had asked about it, Stiles had said it was Scott being stubborn and refusing to let mockery get the better of him, but that wasn’t it. He liked it, plain and simple. Liked the intricate patterning, liked that Stiles had seen it and thought of him. Liked that it was a symbol of everything they’d been through together.

"That thing you did with your tongue? That was so hot. You should use that move on Kira to win her back," Stiles said, idly.

Scott had been about to kiss Stiles on the cheek, but he stopped halfway.

"But before you do that, you gotta teach me so I can add it to my seduction trick bag," Stiles continued, seemingly oblivious to Scott’s concentrated stare.

"Why do you think I want to win Kira back?" Scott asked, wincing a little at his own harsh tone.

Stiles tilted his head so he could look him in the eye. There was a deep crease bisecting his forehead, and even though Scott was currently feeling pretty damn mad and sore-hearted, he wanted to lick it.

"Because she’s gorgeous and you make a great couple?"

"Stiles, what do you think this is, between us? This thing we’ve been doing for two months?"

Stiles now looked confused, concerned, and lacking in confidence. “Deftly coordinated stress relief?”

"Dude, I’ve been telling everyone you’re my boyfriend for 7 weeks."

"What?"

"I changed my relationship status on facebook."

"No one our age uses facebook."

"My cousins do so I do too."

"Scotty—-"

Scott ignored him. “I got us those matching peanut butter and jelly T-shirts? The ones that you laughed so hard at you started crying, because they’re so bad and that’s so good. We held hands the entire time we were at the diner two days ago. We only spoke to each other when we went to Mason’s party. The whole night, dancing and chatting alone, no interaction with anyone else. Like, Stiles, do you pay any attention at all? We’re dating. Us. We’re a couple.”

"Uh…"

"I’ll teach you the tongue thing, but that’s because I want you to use it on me. I’m the only person I want you seducing."

Stiles made a wild, convoluted gesture with his hands. “Do I get any say in this at all?”

"Ordinarily I’d say yes, but I’ve seen the way you look at me. You love me as much as I love you. So no, you don’t get any say."

"I do love you," Stiles said, eyes going soft and fond. He frowned again. "I guess I thought I was hiding it well. And also that you could never feel the same way."

"I’m so offended right now. I marathoned _Star Wars_ for you. I made you that mixtape, with those bands you like I’d never heard of before. I didn’t complain when you went through that two week hair gel obsession or your terrible attempt to grow facial hair. Last week I said ‘I love waking up next to you’. In how many ways do I have to show and tell you that I’m gone over you?”

"I think I get it—"

"Seriously, Stiles, do I have to hire a skywriter, because I will."

"Shush, all right? I finally understand."

"We wear each other’s clothes _all the time_ ”…


	7. Secret Code Not!fic

So, um, you know how people who’ve been friends for years often have short-cuts, shared phrases and injokes that they may not even remember the beginning to? What if Scott and Stiles have a secret language, like their secret handshake, that they developed when they were 8. Except it isn’t really a secret language, it’s heavily based on morse code, which is something a young Stiles never wanted to tell Scott, because he was trying to impress him. 

And yeah, it’s a little different from morse code, because Stiles let Scott change what he wanted to, but not by much. Scott figured it out a couple of years ago, but he hasn’t said anything, doesn’t want to tarnish the memory. He remembers why Stiles clung to him back then, why he was always trying to convince him they didn’t need any other friends. He liked that they only had each other, it made him feel secure too.

But, okay, one day they’re arguing over which one of them is stupider when it comes to lack of self preservation, and then the next they’re kissing up against Stiles’ door, and they’re both completely shocked, but not enough to stop straight away.

It escalates. Things always do where they’re concerned. One minute they’re skillfully avoiding talking about the sexual tension between them, the next they’re stripping off their shirts and mapping each other’s bodies with fingers that have never lingered like this before. Scott lightly traces over moles and freckles he’s seen, but never truly appreciated, presses open-mouthed kisses over Stiles’ patch of chest hair. 

They don’t have to talk about how they’ll continue, already instinctively moving toward Scott lying on his front with a carefully placed pillow raising his hips, Stiles getting lube, but they do anyway: check and confirm —

"You wanna do this?"

"Yeah, yeah I really do."

"Me too."

Then Stiles is smoothing his hands over Scott’s back, thumbs working at the tense muscles between his shoulder blades. Scott wants to say it’s anticipation, not fear, but then there’s a rhythm played along his spine, touches that are fast and slow. Two quick taps to start it off - I - then a series that isn’t a pattern but a word, four letters he’s sure of it, then a swipe of a finger between another three letters. Physical dits and dahs that spell out ‘I love you’. Scott swivels before Stiles can move again and kisses him fiercely. He puts everything he can into the kiss; every ‘thank you’, every ‘I’d do anything for you’, every ‘I want you forever’.

Later, after Stiles has opened him up, broken him apart, then made him whole again, he spells out his own messages against Stiles’ salty-sweet skin. He stretches his legs, smiling at how sore he feels all over, how indelible Stiles’ mark has been.

"Did you just kiss the word ‘alter’?" Stiles asks with a small twist of his lips that isn’t a smile, but is still amused.

"Always," Scott corrects. 

'Always,' Stiles repeats in kisses up his neck. 

So their language isn’t quite as secret as Scott used to believe, but it belongs to them all the same.


	8. Maybe Tuesday Will Be My Good News Day (Kidfic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teacher/single parent AU combined with brand new neighbors AU.

The thing people don’t know about teaching, unless they are a teacher themselves or are unfortunately closely related to one, is that it’s exhausting in the kind of way your bones feel like they’ve turned to jell-o. Scott never wants to speak when he gets home. Never wants to go out, work out, or do _anything_ that requires full cognitive function. He doesn’t want to see anybody or have any expectations put upon him. He wants to wallow in his little house and lock himself away from the world.

So the day he discovers one of his students has moved next door is one of the worst of his life.

He doesn’t like feeling this way. He knows he’s being ungracious and uncharitable and downright mean. But Scott needs his space and time to rest. His town’s already small enough that he sees at least one of his former or current students every time he goes grocery shopping. 

Usually, when people move in near by, Scott’s one of the first people to introduce themselves. He has three types of welcoming cookies his mom taught him how to bake that he normally packages up and gives in a giftbasket. 

He doesn’t do that this time.

It isn’t that Grzegorz (“Call me Greg”) Stilinski isn’t a good student - out of all of Scott’s class, he’s one of the most intelligent, yet least arrogant. He mostly follows the most important school and class rules. He’s keen to engage and learn. He’s far from being the bane of Scott’s daily existence. Scott just wants to keep his distance.

And then he sees the guy. 

He doesn’t know who the guy is. He looks too young to have a 10 year old son, so Scott assumes he’s a family friend helping with fixing up the place. Or maybe Greg has an older brother Scott never thought to ask about.

The guy is cleaning up the front yard of the house; pulling out weeds and old plants that can’t be revived. Scott’s watching him, because he can’t think of anything better to do and from his vantage point, the guy is cute as hell. He’s wearing khakis that show off a well-toned butt and a plaid shirt that constantly slips up to reveal a tantalizing slice of skin at his back and sides. He has broad shoulders and long legs and Scott doesn’t want to look away. Greg was picked up by his best friend an hour ago so there’s no danger of Scott being seen as he peers at the guy through his window. 

The guy isn’t wearing gloves, and he obviously doesn’t know anything about gardening, because he pulls on a bunch of nettles and then starts hopping about the yard screaming and swearing.

Scott goes outside, calls across their adjoining low fence. “You need help?”

"This house is attempting to murder me," the guy gasps back, staring at his hand in horror.

"What were you doing?" Scott asks, because he doesn’t want to make it obvious he was spying. 

The guy gestures at the nettles by his feet. “Nothing but light menial work.”

"They’re stinging nettles. We need to clean your hand off and treat it with baking soda. You got any?"

"No."

"I do. Come to mine. I’m Scott, by the way."

"Stiles," the guy says. "I’d shake your hand, but ow."

They go into Scott’s house and he settles Stiles down on a stool. He gets a bowl and fills it with water. Finds a cloth and the baking soda. This is second nature to him. He worked as a veterinary assistant through High School, used to visit and help his mom at the hospital when she’d let him. And when he was teaching kindergarten some days half his job was fixing scraped knees and other similar minor boo boos.

Up close, Stiles isn’t as young as he initially seemed. There’s wisdom in his gaze, confidence in the set of his jaw. He has faint lines around the corners of his plush lips and just below his eyes. There’s a pink flush in the hollows of his cheeks that speaks of embarrassment. Greg gets that exact same look on his face and Scott’s beginning to think Stiles might be his dad after all.

Scott’s as gentle as he can be as he dabs at Stiles’ hand, holding his fingers lightly. They’re beautiful fingers — thin but strong looking, like an artist’s. Scott doesn’t often notice things like that, but he finds himself cataloging all of Stiles’ features.

"Any better?"

Stiles seems to snap out of a reverie, blinking back to awareness. “Yeah, thanks, man, I appreciate it.”

"No problem. I’ll let you continue your quest to ravage all nearby shrubbery. But, uhm, you can have a pair of my gardening gloves first."

*

Greg sees Scott getting his mail within the next week. “Mr. McCall?” he asks, looking furtively around with a comical flail. 

"Hey, Greg, how are you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here."

Greg’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s so weird.” Then he double takes again and his whole face screws up. “ _Oh._ Oh no.”

"Glad you’re happy with this knowledge," Scott says with a wry smile. He can’t really complain. He felt the same way, after all.

"No that’s not — never mind. I gotta get back inside. My dad’s cooking and when he does the house has a chance of blowing up."

Scott waves goodbye absently, automatically picturing Stiles with his shirt sleeves rolled up and forehead glossy from working over the stove top. It’s a good mental image.

*

Scott sees the Stilinskis frequently after that. To be fair to Greg, he doesn’t purposefully go out of his way to harangue and harass Scott, and Scott starts to realize he’s not the kind of kid who’s going to tell the entire school what ‘Mr. McCall’ does in his time off. If anything, he seems equally as committed to keeping them as separate as Scott is. 

Except Scott’s no longer that committed, because he wholeheartedly likes being around Stiles. 

He learns that Stiles’ first name is unpronounceable just like Greg’s, and that’s why he’s Stiles. It’s a family tradition, apparently, to use Polish names that others will struggle with, and then go by a nickname the entirety of your life. He learns that Stiles works from home or on set as a law consultant for three different TV shows that shoot in LA, because his dad was a Sheriff and he very nearly was too. (Scott starts to watch all three shows and does a fistpump every time Stiles’ name’s on screen.) He learns that Stiles has a way of licking and biting at his lips, as well as putting various objects in his mouth in casually erotic ways. He learns that when he has a crush, he has it _bad_.

He starts to feel guilty. He’s sure the last thing Greg wants is his teacher making goo-goo eyes at his dad. He’s sure the last thing Stiles needs is unwanted attention from his next door neighbor. But he can’t help it, can’t help imagining it, replaying moments between them like he has a zoetrope in his brain, or his own specialized Vine.

"Got many plans for the weekend?" Stiles asks one day, returning a tupperware container Scott had given him, full of the welcoming cookies he didn’t initially make.

 _Sleep. Eat. Watch. Read. Visit Mom. Sleep again_ , Scott thinks.

"Not really," he says. "Nothing definite."

"You should come over and watch the game."

Scott assumes he’s talking about baseball. Or perhaps it’s football. He guesses it could also be basketball? He feels out of his depth. The only sports he has any interest in are lacrosse and tennis and even then, he stopped really being into them when he stopped playing them. But Stiles is inviting him over and he’s too weak to resist.

"Sure, sounds great. I’ll bring snacks."

"I should say no out of a sense of courtesy, but dude, your snacks are amazing. Bring snacks, for sure."

*

The game Stiles was referring to was baseball. He takes Stiles and Greg more cookies, parmesan coated fresh popped popcorn, cheeseburger dip and corn chips. The three of them finish all the food in an hour, tops. 

Greg doesn’t seem to mind that he’s there, which is strange given previous behavior, but oddly comforting. He keeps shooting him and Stiles little looks with a thoughtful expression on his face, like he’s approximating. Scott doesn’t know what his conclusions are, or whether they’ve led to him calculating. 

It must be obvious he has no clue about the rules of baseball, or what’s going on, because Stiles starts to explain things around halfway through. He leans close and Scott knows he should pay attention to what he’s saying, but he’s more interested in the way he’s saying it. He likes Stiles’ voice, likes the way it curls around him and makes him feel like the center of the universe.

By the end of the day he’s a mixture of joyous and messed up, because he wants something he knows he’s not allowed.

*

Several things happen over the next couple of months. Scott’s given a project to complete that requires spending more time at school every afternoon and many weekends. The Stilinskis get the cutest dog known to man and name her Fluffbutt. And Greg starts to obviously, pointedly set Scott up to spend time with Stiles. His excuses range from sweet: “Please teach him how to cook, Mr. McCall. Please. We used to live on take out all the time, but I’m a growing boy and I need real food.” To the bizarrely self-sacrificing: “You should come to my house after school, Mr. McCall, to check that I really do my own homework.”

Scott resists as much as he can. Sometimes, he slips up and agrees to whatever foolish plans Greg has concocted. He finds himself regretting it during the night when he can’t stop thinking about Stiles’ everything. But during the day, it’s the best. Scott’s actively enjoying socializing. He has more energy than he ever had before.

One day, he’s out on his porch grading writing assignments when Greg comes over with Fluffbutt.

"My dad said you used to work as a vet?" he says, sounding anxious. "Fluffbutt’s hurt her paw."

Scott is going to correct him, but he hates seeing people in distress. He examines the paw carefully, ensuring Fluffbutt is calm and comfortable. 

"Feels like a sprain, but you should probably take her to a real vet like Dr. Deaton," he says gently. 

Greg lets out a shaky breath, strokes Fluffbutt reverently. “Thanks so much. Uh, can I ask you something?”

"You’ll see the grade you’ve gotten tomorrow, like everyone else."

"Please, I know that I deserve an A. That’s not what I wanna ask. You like my dad, right?"

Scott shifts in his seat. He hopes it isn’t too obvious that he’s about to evade the actual question being asked. “He’s a very nice man.”

"No, he really isn’t. I love him, but we all know that nice isn’t the right descriptor. Some things he is are lonely and in love with you, and I’m okay if you want to do something about that. You’re a good person."

"It isn’t that simple and I don’t think your dad would appreciate you telling me things like this, Greg."

"I don’t get why it can’t be simple."

Scott’s never wanted to be the adult who tells a child they’re a child, that they’re too young to understand how the world really works. He knows many children who have a better grasp on reality than some adults. His heart’s beating out of his ribcage because of what Greg’s said and he desperately hopes it’s not his fanciful imagination, hopes that there’s a shred of truth to his assertion. 

"I’ll talk to him," Scott says, quietly. Greg beams. 

*

The next time Scott talks to Stiles they’re both shaking with nerves. 

"I need to apologize on behalf of my son," Stiles starts.

"Because he was lying?" Scott responds, already feeling the pit in his stomach deepening.

"Uh, no. No. But I’m sure you didn’t want—"

"I did. I do. I want," Scott says, before Stiles can say anything else. "Very much."

Stiles’ eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, lips curving softly in the kind of way that always makes Scott want to kiss him. So he does. He leans in, telegraphs his intentions by putting his hand on Stiles’ neck. He quirks an eyebrow in request and Stiles nods, pushes them closer. 

The kiss makes his pulse patter quicker, makes his chest go tight, makes him want to learn all the different ways he can kiss Stiles. It’s tender and sweet and involving, and Scott hums into it, arching into the warm, solid body before him.

"Ugh. Gross. I should’ve realized this would be the consequence of my actions," Greg’s voice says, interrupting the moment.

Scott laughs, stomach clenching even harder at Stiles’ answering expression.

It turns out, the day he discovered one of his students had moved next door was one of the best of his life.


	9. Switching to Manual (PWP with dub con)

Scott’s panting, eyelids scrunched up, whole body flushed. 

Stiles smoothes his hand down the nubs of his spine, lingers near the curve of his ass. He makes soft, soothing noises as Scott whines and watches carefully to ensure the dildo fucking in and out of him is slick enough. He grabs the bottle of lube and drizzles a little more.

It’s hour six and Scott’s still begging for it, voice hoarse and eyes glazed, but he looks sore. Deep pink, almost red, and stretched tight around silicon. The fucking machine replaced Stiles after the third hour, after he tried and tried but couldn’t anymore. It does the job with a thumping clanging sound that routinely makes Scott arch his back higher, frequently jolts Stiles’ nerves.

“You need water?” he asks, gentle in a way he almost never is, feeling so tender-hearted for Scott right now. Scott, who doesn’t deserve this kind of sweet torture, but subjected himself to it anyway. Scott, whose cheeks are streaked with tears Stiles can never capture quickly enough.

Scott nods and Stiles springs immediately into action. He’s ready with a glass and straw within a minute, even though he’s aching everywhere himself. The gratitude in Scott’s expression almost breaks him.

“You’re doing so good, Scotty,” he murmurs, brushing Scott’s hair away from his forehead and rubbing his thumb against his cheek. “You’re so strong, so resilient.”

“I need more,” Scott rasps, blinking up at Stiles with a gaze that’s more assessing than he was expecting. “Need you.”

It makes Stiles’ tongue feel too thick for his mouth. Yeah, he’s been dealing with low-grade arousal for the past hour, body seemingly recovered from the marathon sex of before. Sure, it makes his pulse spike and blood run hot. But Scott’s taken so much already. Scott’s halfway to wrecked, knuckles white as his hands grip onto the bench under him, skin sweat-slicked from head to toe, muscles quivering whenever Stiles draws his fingers over them. It feels like taking advantage.

“I want you too,” Scott continues, sounding sex-drunk, but looking lucid. “Want this to be about more than the ritual.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with his hands, what to do with anything. He doesn’t know how Scott can just say it, like the words are easy, like this is something they’ve shared before. Before today they were best friends and Stiles never would have guessed Scott could ever want something else. Before today he’d assumed this was more about trust than desire, that Scott chose him because he knew this couldn’t split them apart. But if it’s actually because Scott’s thought of them like this, imagined Stiles’ hands on his body, Stiles inside him, well…

He crouches down. “Can I kiss you?”

"Yeah, yes. Kiss me. Wanna feel you.”

Stiles drags his fingers through the damp strands of Scott’s hair and tilts his head up a fraction, presses their lips together and slides his tongue inside Scott’s mouth. He kisses him like he’s always dreamed of doing, gives him everything he’s got.

“You gonna fuck inside my mouth now, or do I need to plead some more?” Scott asks, once Stiles has stopped for breath.

“I’m not – this isn’t about wanting to hear you beg. Not like this.”

“I know, Stiles, I know, but you’re hard and you smell so fucking good and I wanna taste you again, so you think you could…” The suggestion is cut off by Scott moaning into a thrust that must’ve hit differently from the others. He’s widened his legs into an even looser sprawl and the fake cock pounding him curves as it enters.

Stiles cups himself over his pants, suppresses his own groan. After the day is done, Scott will be more powerful, even more in control as an alpha, and Stiles doesn’t know what he’ll be other than completely transformed. His new shape and purpose? A mystery.

Scott’s eyes slide closed again as Stiles peels down wet cotton. His lips part, glistening and pink. The metallic clang of the machine shatters the silence of the room and Stiles’ hips surge forward of their own volition in response, nudging the head of his cock against Scott’s cheek. Scott grunts, deeper than before, desperate, and Stiles adjusts angle.

He’s surrounded by hot, wet perfection and it’s almost too much, not nearly enough. He’s washed up since their session before, listening to Scott’s keening cries when the fucking machine was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and he’s still sensitive, still riding the edge of irritation. It’s the slightest chafe and Scott soothes and exacerbates it with every suck, each lick. Stiles is agonizingly hard and doing his damnedest not to rut. But the idea of Scott fixed between two cocks mechanically driving into him has him choking on thick gulps of air. He knows he’d take it and be grateful. Knows he’d look amazing, whole body taut and bowed.

He brushes his hand over Scott’s head and down to his neck, taps his fingertips between his shoulderblades. He moans for Scott, waits for the response. He’s rewarded with whimpers and he starts to pull out only for Scott to lurch forward and take him in again, only for his balls to draw up tight and his ass to clench as he comes. There’s the faintest trickle of watery come edging over Scott’s lip. He’s met with dark eyes that seem so satisfied, it punches him in the solar plexus.

Stiles’ knees buckle and he lands in an ungainly sprawl, watches as Scott uses one hand to stroke at his thick, reddened cock. The muscles in his other arm cord, straining as they hold up his weight. Stiles thinks he should’ve accounted for that, should have some kind of frame for Scott to rest on.

Maybe next time. Maybe there can be a next time.

“One more,” Scott says with hushed optimism. “One more hour and then we’re through. For now.”

Stiles isn’t positive he’ll be able to last. But he will, for Scott.


	10. Hurt/Comfort

Stiles thought he’d forgotten what it was like, to worry for Scott this way. Usually his concerns have external motivators, are borne from situations where he feels like he’d have some control - not much, maybe, but a little. And failure or success would rest on him, on his contributions. If he did his very best things might not be irrevocably fucked up.

But this? Stiles has never been able to combat this. He’d gotten so good at keeping a spare inhaler, and listening to the patterns of Scott’s breathing, back when this was his greatest concern. He’d had monitoring Scott down to a fine art. Sometimes he’d known when Scott was gonna have an asthma attack before _Scott_ did. But he’d assumed he wouldn’t have to think about this ever again, so he _didn’t_. And now he’s living the consequences.

Scott’s wheezing as Stiles presses against his back, chest faltering. It’s obvious he’s trying to follow Stiles’ instructions, to keep time with his breathing, to open up his airways, but wishful thinking isn’t gonna cut it this time. For whatever reason, Scott’s back to being as mortal as he’s ever been and he’s therefore back to requiring the medication he hasn’t had for ten months. Liam and Mason have run off to find something that’ll help, and in the meantime Stiles has to focus. He cannot and will not panic when Scott needs him.

"If you wanted my attention, buddy, all you had to do was ask," he says, not expecting a response.

Scott clasps a shaky hand around his wrist and rattles it from side to side.

"I’m serious. I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I’m always willing to stop the world and get off for you. Or with you. Whatever you want."

Scott’s fingers press a little tighter, but Stiles knows that grip, it’s the one he uses to silently chastise. 

"What, no mutual masturbation jokes at this time of day? But I have so much material and a captive audience.”

Stiles is afraid to look at Scott’s face. He knows he should. He knows he should be checking if Scott’s lips have turned blue, but he saw that once before when they were twelve and he vowed never again. Still - he has to risk it. He needs to know. When he twists around and gazes at Scott, he’s gratified to see that he’s not as ashen as he was earlier, that his lips are still pink. Stiles cradles his jaw and examines him closely. His breathing sounds strained, but not like he’s frantically clutching for air. His eyes flicker red once or twice, like his Alpha powers were temporarily knocked out, but are slowly coming back online.

"You feeling a bit better there, Scotty?" Stiles asks, continuing to expect only a nod at most, an exasperated gaze at best.

"Yeah," Scott says, defying expectations. "I really am."

Scott lurches forward, and Stiles thinks he’s losing his balance, that this is the second symptom of whatever’s going on with him, but then he realizes Scott’s kissing his cheek. 

"Thank you," Scott says, voice hoarse. 

"You scared the shit out of me. You’re still scaring the shit out of me."

"I know."

"Any idea why?"

Scott looks furtive for a second. Then remorseful. Then defensive. “You’re not allowed to get angry.”

"Scott."

"Deaton told me a way to boost protection for members of my pack. He said it would drain my power for a while, but I didn’t know that’d lead to this.”

"So basically you did this to yourself?"

"To help you."

"In what way do you think that doesn’t make it worse?"

Scott’s breathing fairly normally now. His eyes flicker red and brown alternately. But Stiles would feel better seeing him use his inhaler. He’d feel better thinking Scott wouldn’t sacrifice so much all the time. Because no, he hadn’t worried for Scott this way for a long time, but that didn’t mean he never worries. He has the insane urge to hug Scott tight and never, ever let go. That urge can sometimes last for days.

"How can I make it up to you?" Scott asks. Stiles can’t believe him. There is no belief to be had.

"Tell me before you decide to risk life, lung and limb?"

"Okay, I can do that."

"Let me just hold you for a while?"

"I can do that too. But you’re not allowed to squirm."

"Wriggle?"

"No."

"Jostle?"

"No."

Stiles gives a mock sigh, can’t be happier when Scott echoes it. “You may need to distract me with more kisses, or let me distract you with more jerk-off jokes.”

He’s expecting a poke, a good-natured eye-roll, and a fond-but-infuriated ‘Stiles’, but once again Scott surprises him. 

This kiss lands on his lips, perfectly angled. It’s wet and warm and Stiles’ heart rises into his throat, his pulse beats out a persistent rhythm, his fingers curl in tight to his palms, itching to stroke along Scott’s soft skin. When they pull apart, Stiles stares into Scott’s eyes and is floored by his look of _love_. He doesn’t know what to do with that level of affection, can’t parse it. He wants, so much, to live in this moment forever.

He brushes his thumb over Scott’s jawline, glances at his lips and then back into his eyes. “Dude, is it too soon to say you took my breath away?”


	11. Letter to You on a Cassette (Not!fic)

The idea behind this is Scott sending Stiles away to college.

(It’s never crossed Stiles’ mind before that he and Scott would ever be separated for any length of time. In all his envisioning of his future – when he believed he had one – Scott was omnipresent, there by his side, or slightly ahead, or a little behind. And Scott’s never lied to him before. Omitted, maybe, and usually by accident, but outright told him a falsehood? Nuh uh. He’d know. Or would he? Because he sure thought Scott had gotten into UC Davis, that he’d applied, and that’s the only reason he’d agreed to go to Berkeley and now it’s too late to back out and —

“I can’t believe you,” he says, and it isn’t yelling, it isn’t, but it’s loud and indignant and filled with righteous fury.

Scott seems calm and implacable. Seems being the operative word. Stiles can see the minor twitch of his left eye. “I want you to have a normal life.”

“Never happening, buddy. There’s no such thing.”

“All right. Well, then. I want you to be safe.”

This is a discussion they’ve had in many different flavors — halfway through engaging with an enemy, in the soft, somber clean-up afterwards, in the wild celebration of life that follows that. It’s always infuriating.

“You think I could be safe away from the pack? Constantly worrying if you’re all okay?”

' _Constantly worrying if_ you’re _okay_ ’, he thinks.

“I think we have to at least try, and if it doesn’t work out — if it’s really impossible, at least then we know.”)

Scott missing Stiles so so so so so much and regretting it every day. Trying to distract himself and fill up the time he used to spend with Stiles by learning how to play guitar. Setting up his tablet and recording videos because he knows he has to be honest with himself, has to have some kind of reminder for the future. His first videos are Smoke on the Water, Stairway to Heaven, Wonderwall. All the amateur hour classics. And yeah he’s more pop than pop-punk, but he still does Blink 182’s “I Miss You”. He does a shitty rendition of Queen’s "You’re My Best Friend", and an even shittier "With or Without You" by U2. 

(What he doesn’t know is that his videos get uploaded to his cloud service. And of course Stiles knows his password [it’s Stiles’ real first name], of course he set this up deliberately, of course he watches Scott’s awful but sincere song renditions and feels his heart tearing out of his chest. Because there’s no doubt in his mind they’re for him, about him, about them. No doubt in his mind that he needs to go back home, to Scott. He never wanted to leave in the first place.)

So then there’s the reunion. Scott doesn’t know Stiles has seen him pouring out his heart and soul, so he’s taken aback by the bone-crunching hug, and even more surprised by the kiss. At first he tries to convince himself this is nothing he’s ever considered before, but as it continues he realizes the lie. This is everything he’s ever wanted. 

After a lot of kissing, Stiles admits he’s seen the videos and asks Scott to play him something. Scott plays the Beach Boys’ ‘God Only Knows’ and Stiles joins in with terrible harmonization that makes it sound 9 times worse and 200 times better.

The idea behind this is Scott sending Stiles away to college — but he can’t make him stay away. And truthfully, that’s for the best for both of them.


	12. Communicate (deaf!Scott au)

Stiles feels bad that he gets bored at the hospital.

He feels bad in the same way he knows he should feel bad about getting bored at school. He sits outside his mom’s room and tries to read, but finds it hard to concentrate. He’s gone and played with the other kids before, but they don’t like him much – either he’s too healthy, or he’s too inquisitive, or he’s too loud – he can’t figure it out. All he knows is that he spends many days by himself.

One day, another boy comes and sits next to him. He opens out a thick book and starts to read. He’s about the same age as Stiles, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. He looks shorter but stockier, with an unruly mop of dark waves completely different from Stiles’ buzzcut.

“Hey,” Stiles says, but the boy ignores him.

Stiles is used to being ignored, but it still makes him bitter. He deliberately jostles his chair from side to the side. The boy looks up and smiles a soft, warm smile at him.

“Hey,” Stiles says again, with a challenging raise of his eyebrows.

The boy responds with another smile, before looking back down at his book.

Stiles is pretty sure he knows all the kids in Beacon Hills, because even though there are two elementary schools, he’s gotten great at spying, and he’s never seen this kid before. He’s about to give this boy a full interrogation, but then the nurse comes out and says his mom wants to see him.

*

Stiles has been both praised and chastised equally for his vivid imagination over the years, and he honestly starts to wonder if the boy at the hospital was a ghost. It would explain the lack of communication.

*

He sees him again in the waiting room, staring at a packet of chips in the vending machine. He has his hand open and keeps glancing from his hand to the chips.

“Need any help?”

There’s no response. Stiles is starting to get frustrated. He nudges him gently with his shoulder.

The boy looks up at him. “Were you talking to me?”

He speaks quietly, falteringly, and with an accent Stiles can’t distinguish.

“I asked if you wanted help,” Stiles says.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“My name’s Stiles,” Stiles says, hoping his opening up will result in the boy doing the same. The boy scrunches his face, blinks at him. “And your name is?”

“Scott,” the boy answers. He smiles again, and Stiles doesn’t think he’s supposed to think of another boy as pretty, but he thinks it’s the right word for Scott anyway.

Stiles is about to ask a hundred other questions, but he’s dragged away by his dad. He gazes at Scott as he’s pulled away. He wants to know everything about him, about where he’s from, why he’s here. Anything and anyone should worry when he becomes fixated on them. He’s always been the kind to do so, and honestly, he needs the distraction.

*

The next time he sees Scott, it’s at school. He’s walking into the cafeteria, fiddling with his hair.

“Hey, Scott, wait up,” Stiles calls, but it’s no use, he’s rounding the corner, not paying Stiles any attention at all.

Stiles shuffles dejectedly into the cafeteria minutes later, toes scuffing the flooring. He wants to know why everything needs to be so hard, why no one ever wants to be with him. He doesn’t think he’s that repulsive.

He’s about to sit in his usual corner alone, but Scott’s there, beaming, waving him over.

“Hi!” Scott says enthusiastically. “You come here!”

“I do,” Stiles says. “Have you only just started?”

“I started last Friday,” Scott says, slowly. His hands twitch against the table top and he looks a little strained, like he’s nervous.

“Where were you before?”

“Sunnyvale.”

“Did you like –”

Stiles is cut off by Jackson Whittemore throwing a bread roll at Scott’s head. Scott looks down at the table and goes pink, doesn’t seem to want to defend himself. He curls in and looks smaller.

“Should’ve known the freaks would flock together,” Jackson sneers, standing at the table near them. “You having fun with Dumbo, Stinklinski?”

Stiles has only ever said the next word he’s about to say twice before, because he’s never wanted to disappoint his mom, and she says it’s a grown-up word with grown-up intentions, but it feels right to say it now.

“Fuck off, Jackson.”

Jackson does fuck off, but only to tell a teacher on him. Stiles gently, tentatively reaches toward Scott. “Do you wanna come hide with me?”

Scott gives him a grateful grin, picks up his sandwich and juice, and follows Stiles to his favorite spot behind the gymnasium. Sitting across from Scott, Stiles sucks on his juice for a little bit, and studies him intently.

“You’re deaf, aren’t you?” Stiles says, figuring there’s no point easing into it. All of his observations have lead to this conclusion.

“Yeah,” Scott says, looking sad and worried, like he thinks Stiles is going to stand up any second and abandon him.

“Do you know sign language?”

Scott nods and signs something. Stiles tilts his head to the side, watching his hands. “Would you teach me?”

Scott looks unsure, then shrugs. “If you wanted.”

“It would be great! We could make our own secret club, and no one else could join, because they wouldn’t know the password, because the password wouldn’t be a word!”

Scott snorts out a laugh. “Okay, I’ll show you. But it takes a lot of practice. You have to be really good at looking.”

“That’s all right. I like learning new things. And I’m the best at looking.”

*  
When they’re at the hospital, Stiles and Scott spend hours at a time signing at each other. It helps while away the day, when Stiles’ mom is too sick to see him, and his dad is by her side. Scott’s a patient teacher, and doesn’t seem to mind that Stiles sometimes finds it hard to focus. They play all kinds of games. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to become attached. But that’s okay, because Scott seems to feel the same.

“I think I misread you,” Stiles says, squinting at Scott’s fingers. “Did you just say I sign like a baby?”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Scott says with an affectionate push. He dazzles Stiles with a grin. “But a very clever baby.”

“Gee, thanks, Scott. I’m only as good as my teacher, you know.”

“It’s cute,” Scott insists. He looks away, and Stiles thinks maybe he’s intending to whisper, but he can definitely hear Scott say, “Like you.”


	13. Across the Night

The leaves rustle and there’s an ominous creaking sound coming from somewhere, but Scott’s beyond caring, because he’s got Stiles wrapped up in his arms. 

"We’re gonna have to tell everyone eventually," Stiles says. "I think Derek already knows."

"He does, I told him."

"Dude."

"He doesn’t care."

"How do you know that?"

"He groaned and said ‘I don’t care’. It was kinda definitive."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Scott doesn’t think he’s genuinely annoyed. He’s seen all eighty-five of Stiles’ genuinely annoyed expressions, and this one’s more fondly exasperated. Stiles wriggles from his spot splayed over Scott’s lap. His long legs tap against Scott’s, his torso rubs tantalizingly. 

"Remember when we came here and got drunk?"

"I remember when we came here and you got drunk, yeah."

"I wanted to climb you like a tree."

Scott imagines it, feels his mouth going dry. He wouldn’t have gotten it, then, would probably have ruined everything between them in his confusion. It’s funny how a year and a half can change everything, how needs and wants can subtly change. This newfound relationship gives him so much he never knew he wanted. 

He doesn’t think he’d change anything. Sure, they could have been doing this sooner, but he kind of likes how they came together, likes that it’s been gradual and secret and for them and them alone. 

"You should do that," Scott says, challenging. "Show me what you’ve got."

Stiles kisses him aggressively, with a touch of teeth and lash of tongue. It’s so good, so consuming, Scott loses himself in it and finds himself all over again. Stiles is confident in this like he’s confident in most things — like he has no choice but to be this way. He laughs into Scott’s mouth and nips at him, pulls back and assesses with a wink. 

"Want more?"

"Always."

"You’re gonna have to chase me for it," Stiles says with a yell, leaping off Scott’s lap and rushing away, young and wild in a way he hasn’t been for too long. He’s bound to trip on a tree root any second now. Scott will laugh when he finds him, golden leaves strewn through his hair. He’ll pick him up, dust him off, and keep him forever.

They write stories about this, Scott knows, write allegories and cautions. But they always get it wrong. It’s almost never about the dangers of darkness, and frequently about the power of light.


	14. You'd Better Go In Disguise (wolf!Scott, xeno)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Scott and Stiles try something really kinky for the first time, but end up laughing and having totally sweet vanilla sex.

Stiles doesn’t think the word ‘nervous’ accurately conveys his emotional state right now. He’s nine parts excited, four parts turned on, one part worried, three parts ashamed, and if he doesn’t know how many parts that makes in total, that’s okay, he’s sure he’s not the only one who’s dealing with a lot right now. 

The woods are dark and ominous. He’s careful not to trip in the undergrowth. There’s no running away here, no sirree. He’s not the squishy bunny Scott’s gonna bake in his little werewolf oven. He’s not a sacrifice. But he is an offering.

 

The cool thing about the full werewolf transformation is everything. Scott looks nothing like Peter did, is markedly different from Derek. He’s dark and sleek and while his eyes glow red he never looks menacing. Because he chooses not to, Stiles knows that, knows that Scott could look very different against an antagonist, but he projects an aura of protection and patience whenever he’s with Stiles. He seems so in control. Which is why Stiles wanted to do this.

Maybe it’s not right, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels daring and fascinating and Stiles is hard against his zipper, has to stop against a tree to press the heel of his palm against his erection. He thinks about going down onto his forearms and knees, presenting, and moans thickly in the back of his throat.

This is when Scott comes bounding out from the depths of the forest, all muscle and power and majesty. 

And he’s cute as hell.

His little tongue is lolling, his tail his wagging, he yips as he springs at Stiles. He is not a predator; no - that was always Stiles. Stiles giggles as Scott nuzzles at his fingers, as he chuffs against Stiles’ petting. Scott as a wolf is beautiful, but he’s also a dork, there’s no two ways about it. 

Stiles crouches down, gets eye level, grins as Scott licks at his chin, his cheek. Scott bops him on the nose and he laughs harder. Stiles captures him around his middle and rolls him to the ground. Scott wriggles against him, then gains the advantage and tugs at his shirt with his teeth, playfully grizzling and growling.

After a couple of minutes of joyful rough-housing, Stiles realizes their plans aren’t likely to come to fruition.

"This is amazing, but it isn’t sexy, buddy," he says with a sigh. He’s already softened in his pants, only wants to cuddle the wolf in front of him. 

There’s a beat, then the horrible sound of bone and sinew breaking and reknitting, and Scott’s in naked human form sitting across the way.

"Sorry," Scott says, looking equally disheveled and completely unapologetic. He quirks a smile. "Wanna make do with indecent exposure and public sex?"

"No one else is within a mile of us."

"I think it’s more like four miles? But that doesn’t mean the idea isn’t hot, does it?"

Scott’s persuasive when he’s naked. Truthfully, Scott is frequently persuasive. Stiles kisses him softly, then slides his hands down to grab at his ass. “You know it is. You always are, if you want to be.” He raises an eyebrow. “You should’ve just told me.”

Scott goes onto his haunches, crawls closer. Stiles has a moment to think the dirt and fallen leaves must be painful against the skin of his knees. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

"Sure you don’t, White Fang."

"Shut up and kiss me," Scott replies, snapping his teeth at Stiles. 

Stiles kisses him. He can’t stop. He’d miss this, he knows, miss this way they come together so effortlessly.

They fuck, young and wild, though not animalistic. And while it isn’t what Stiles originally intended, it’s _good_.


	15. Que Sera (kidfic)

Scott’s always been worried about becoming a father.

Even when he was pretty sure he was going to die before it became a reality, he’d wake up in a thick sweat, heart pounding in his eardrums, half-sketched in memories of letting his fictitious children down. He knows he’s nothing like his dad in all the ways that count, that he’s had good role models like his mom, Stiles’ dad, Dr. Deaton to guide him, but fear is frequently irrational.

So he’s terrified when Stiles comes to him wide-eyed, a baby curled in his arms. Frozen in place.

It burbles at him, brown eyes blinking. It’s so perfectly tiny and fragile, minute fingernails and a wide nose. Scott shies away immediately, thinking about the damage his claws could rend.

“What’s that?”

“ _She’s_ a baby that was left on my doorstep,” Stiles says, not sounding as harried as he looks.

He rocks her gently from side to side, muscles straining against his shirt. Scott lets himself be distracted by the fine details; a lock of hair falling onto Stiles’ forehead, the thinness of the material of his shirt, the intensity of the gaze he directs toward the baby in his arms.

“Why?” he asks, meaning _why did that happen?_ , but also, _why did you bring her here?_

“I don’t know. It’s weird. Dad says babies left on doorsteps are usually younger, newly born, but she’s at least a year old. I think the fact she’s a werewolf cub might have something to do with it.”

Scott’s thrown off-kilter and he responds with an aggression he doesn’t really feel. “How do you know that?”

“Watch her,” Stiles says.

He loosens one of his arms, brings his hand up and wriggles his fingers in front of the baby’s face. Her eyes flash gold and then she’s gnashing tiny little fangs at him. It’s adorable. Scott feels his chest constrict tighter as he watches her giggle up at Stiles.

Stiles gazes at him. “I thought you might be able to help find out who her mother might be. I also – I gotta admit – I need help. Dad’s shift started a half hour ago and he abandoned me.”

“I…”

He can’t refuse. He has no excuses to give. He wouldn’t do that to Stiles, wouldn’t make him face anything alone. And the baby, it – she needs his help too.

“What do you need?”

Stiles’ breath of relief is palpable. “Dad bought food and diapers and some other stuff before he had to go to work. Hold her while I get the bag from the Jeep?”

He’s never held a baby before, other than the doll that Finstock foisted off on Scott’s unsuspecting home ec class, when he had to substitute for a week because of a bet with the principal gone wrong. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he ever injured her in any way. He doesn’t know how Stiles is so confident with it, except he remembers he used to go visit his cousins in Santa Barbara, that there are two toddlers on his mom’s side of the family. Plus, Stiles never seems to have the good sense to be nervous about this kind of thing. He’s always diving into trouble head first.

Scott holds his arms out and sucks in all the breath he can. Stiles carefully places the baby, asks a mumbled, “okay?” that he doesn’t give Scott time to answer, and then is racing to his Jeep.

He can feel her heartbeat thrumming against his skin, can smell the odd mixture of baby powder, fresh, clean skin, and milk. Her hair is soft and crinkly beneath his fingertips, her body heavier than he assumed. He flashes his eyes at her and she looks up at him in wonder, before speaking at him in decipherable vowel and glottal sounds.

He can do this. He has to try.

“Dude, you’re a natural,” Stiles says, quietly, looking on with an unreadable expression. He’s holding the world’s biggest tote, filled to the brim with stuff Scott’s never seen outside the aisles of the store down the road. “Your mom working?”

“Yeah, until 9 pm.”

“Dad’s gone until midnight. Looks like it’s just us, for now.”

They walk into the house and Stiles arranges things to his liking as Scott sits with the baby on his lap. She’s wiggling on him, digging into the meat of his thighs, but not making a break to escape, which is good, because Stiles still hasn’t gotten to move the glass coffeetable that’s the perfect height for babies to brain themselves. Scott says this and Stiles grunts an agreement.

“Have you given her a name?”

“Burpy. You’ll see why after we give her her next feeding.”

“You can’t name a baby Burpy, Stiles,” Scott says, then thinks about how ridiculous he sounds and laughs. Burpy laughs back at him and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. “What did your dad say?”

“He’s let me call myself Stiles since I was four. You think he’d’ve objected? What would you call her?” Stiles says as he lifts up the coffeetable and takes it into the dining room they never use.

He’s hesitant to call her anything. They can’t keep her, even if they wanted to. And they’d be mad to want to, given the circumstances. There’s too much death surrounding them to take adequate care of new life.

“Burpy it is,” Scott decides.

Stiles settles next to him on the couch, so much closer than he has to. Their knees and elbows knock and only a few times before has Scott been so thankful for the contact. He twists to stare at Stiles and notices the little cracks that mean he isn’t as calm as he’s pretending. The downturn of his mouth, rapid flutter of his eyelids, the slightest, temporary hitch in his breathing.

It occurs to him he’s taken to reading Stiles whenever they’re near. More than he ever used to, more than is strictly necessary.

“What time did you find her?”

“5 am. She started crying, woke me up. I thought it was a nightmare at first, but then dad came stumbling into my room with her cradled to his shoulder. You should’ve seen the look on his face.”

“You need a nap,” Scott pronounces, because it’s true. “Take my bed. I’ll be all right for an hour.”

“You sure?” Stiles asks. He bites at his lip, his inner cheek.

“Not even a little, but you’re terrible when you’re tired, and irritable when you’re ill-fed, so, you go sleep and I’ll have food waiting for when you wake up.”

“I knew you’d be the best house spouse,” Stiles teases, digging his fingers into his perenially ticklish side. He clasps his hand on his shoulder as he levers himself up. Burpy is gazing at him like he’s the shinest object in the known universe, and Scott can’t help but agree.

As soon as Stiles is gone, he regrets sending him away. Burpy begins to rock back and forth, then squirm in obvious distress. She wants down, so Scott lets her down, but it’s a mistake, because she can _move_. He had no idea babies were so quick. Or maybe it’s just werewolf babies. She’s on the other side of the room before he even has time to join her on the floor. She’s banging her hands on the bookshelf, and she has surprising strength considering her size, it sounds like she could dislodge the books and send them tumbling toward her head.

“No, Burpy, you can’t do that. Come here,” Scott says, gently. He holds her at arms length, squints. What do babies do? What are they capable of? What do they like?

There are some old toys up in the attic, but will the noise wake Stiles up? His mom recently ranted that children shouldn’t watch screens until they’re 2 or 3, that they need human interaction, so that rules out his tablet and the television. He’s at a loss. He ends up crawling on the floor next to Burpy, then rolling over and placing her on his stomach. He bounces her up and down, her little fists clutching onto his fingers as she gurgles in delight. At least, he hopes it’s delight.

That then leads on to other such games; airplane, peek-a-boo and stacking books, and, honestly a game that feels like fetch, with Burpy treating him like a puppy. She throws the plushy wolf toy he finds in the tote – Stiles’ idea, no doubt — and he’s clearly expected to pick it up. It’s fun. He catalogs all her reactions, all her joys and grievances. He never knew babies could be so responsive, so engaged.

After a while, her eyelids start to droop. She grizzles, batting at him and gripping his thumb, little eyes welling up.

“No, no, no, don’t cry,” he pleads, taking down the couch cushions and settling her on them.

He doesn’t know if that’s safer or worse than the floor, doesn’t have any answers. He watches her for a while, but she seems okay.

He runs into the kitchen, hastily gathering sandwich-making supplies, skids back into the living room. Burpy’s still on the cushions, eyes closed now, legs kicking out to a beat he can’t hear. He takes an audible sigh of relief.

He’s examining Burpy when Stiles reappears, from her dark skin, to her chubby legs and wrists. Stiles has only been away forty-seven minutes, but it feels like hours. He’s licking his lower lip when he joins Scott on the floor, legs crossed and head tilted.

“You manage okay?” Stiles asks, reaching over and grabbing half a sandwich. It’s gone in three bites.

“I think it’s patently obvious I excelled,” Scott jokes back, stretching his hands out.

Stiles smiles at him like he rarely does anymore, rubs his knuckles against his left eye. “I used to imagine us being dads together,” he says, in the same quiet voice he uses when he’s confessing a dark secret. Hasn’t done that for a long time, not since after the nogitsune. Not since that one night when he crawled in through Scott’s window and joined him under the covers.

“What, like you with a daughter, me with a son?”

“No, like us having our own child,” Stiles says with a shrug, as if this isn’t a revelatory disclosure of something they have never, ever talked about.

“Why’d you stop?” Scott asks, because if Stiles has the courage to be this honest, he’ll do his damnedest to echo him.

“We turned fifteen, you finally noticed girls. It seemed like a moot point.”

“Surely you know by now that me liking girls doesn’t preclude me liking boys? Shouldn’t you have known that then? Which of us spent grades three to nine obsessed with a strawberry haired banshee?”

“What are you saying?” Stiles asks, voice hushed.

“What _aren’t_ you saying?” Scott counters.

His phone rings before he can answer, and Burpy awakens with a wail. Scott wonders if she’s got super-hearing like he does. It must hurt. Stiles wanders off into the kitchen, phone clutched against his ear. Scott picks Burpy up and murmurs at her that everything’s going to be all right. He has to believe that’s true.

“That was just Dad checking in,” Stiles says when he returns. Burpy’s still crying, casting a look of utter betrayal Scott’s way. “And little wolfie’s hungry,” he says with a tender gaze that about breaks Scott in two. “You keep her entertained, I’ll make up some formula.”

Scott doesn’t know what to do with the emotions bursting and colliding inside of him. The only thing he isn’t is confused. He knows what he wants.

When Stiles is back, with a bottle of milk that has Burpy straining in his arms, and distracted eyes as he throws a couch cushion back where it belongs, Scott realizes this isn’t the time for a relationship upheaval. There’s a lot at stake. There’s been an influx of trouble in Beacon Hills ever since they awoke the Nemeton, senior year is hard as hell, and now there’s Burpy to consider.

But you only live once, and he’s sick to the teeth of running, and maybe just once he needs to do something that isn’t necessarily right or smart or for the good of all.

He hands Burpy over into Stiles’ waiting arms, slides his own couch cushion into place. He strokes a hand over Burpy’s head and then Stiles’ jaw. Stiles blinks at him, wary.

“Scott –” he begins. Scott can practically hear his arguments and dismissals, his ‘I wasn’t telling you to pressure you’s. They have actually had this conversation before, but about other things, or so Scott thought.

“This isn’t new,” he explains. “Not some twisted alpha wolf instinct.”

Stiles must sense how serious he is, because he doesn’t interrupt and talk over him like normal. He frowns down at Burpy, hunches his shoulders.

“You know I love you – you have to know – how could I not?”

“There are different kinds of love,” Stiles offers.

“There are. But mine’s the kind where I’d raise children with you, no question. Go to bed with you every night, eagerly anticipating the dawn and waking up to your grumbled ‘why does morning exist’ complaints. I’d try to kiss away your troubles and let you hold down my doubts. And I want you, Stiles, in ways I don’t have you.”

“You got me,” Stiles replies. “Whenever you want.”

Burpy’s finished her bottle and Stiles sets it down. He changes her position, until her head is resting on Scott’s arm. He interaces their fingers and for a second, more, Scott thinks he could have this forever.

Then Burpy shows them both exactly why she was given that name, letting out the longest and loudest belch a creature has ever exhibited in history as Scott knows it.

Stiles snickers. “Romantic, right?”

Scott joins him, pressing them closer together. He wants to kiss Stiles, but he can wait. “Totally. Everyone should have a gas-filled baby on their lap for long-awaited declarations of love.”

“Then I better tell you how much I love you while Burpy’s still awake,” Stiles says, mock-serious.

“Okay, you do that,” Scott replies, pretending he’s expecting more.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him. “Some days, you’re all I think about.”

Burpy gets up onto her feet with a little push and pats Scott on the face. She does the same to Stiles, talking at them in a way which suggests she thinks they should understand. Scott’s not looking forward to them having to change her; he suspects that’s soon. Baby steps. He’s survived this ordeal so far.

Scott’s always been worried about becoming a father. But he knows he can do it with Stiles by his side, for however long he has to, for however long it takes. And maybe one day, when they’re not children themselves, when the world isn’t so dark and disturbing – who knows?


	16. Gift-giving

I’m so here for skittles gift giving, even if it’s not necessarily Christmas gift-giving (we don’t know for sure that everyone celebrates Christmas and I’ve seen some awesome headcanons to that effect.)

But! Gift-giving! I love the idea that Stiles will spend ages and money he frankly does not have getting Scott presents that Scott has mentioned in passing months before, but then wrap them up in such an obscure way, with other completely off the wall things - just because he wants to see Scott’s look of delighted surprise and wonderment.

He wants to see Scott be taken aback about a purposely ugly cat sweater, semi-pretending to like it — “It’s certainly… creative, Stiles”, and semi-being honest to a fault; “I’m not sure of any occasion I’d be able to wear it. Maybe to work? If it doesn’t scare my clients?”

And then when Scott lifts it up, out tumbles an ornate locket compass. 

"Is this?…" Scott starts, staring at it, rubbing his thumb over the engraved casing. 

"Deaton helped me without any kind of portentous warnings or guarded allusions to badness."

"How did you find this? How could you afford it?"

"The owner was selling it on ebay, didn’t know what it was, and I may or may not have sold one of Liam’s kidneys. It’s already grown back, so no harm no foul, right?"

Scott gives him a flat look. “Really, Stiles, how did you get the money?”

"You know all those mornings and afternoons you’ve been working? So have I. You’re staring at a top-rated Macy’s employee, Scott. You should be so impressed. My mannequin displays have been lauded. My customer service has been called blunt but to the point."

Scott flips the cover open, and inside, instead of one needle, there are several, each inscribed with a pack member’s initial.

"It took a few days," Stiles explains. "But it works."

The hug is maybe a little too long? Still not long enough.

"You said you wanted a way to keep track of us," Stiles continues, feeling the heat rise up his neck, settle in the hollows of his cheeks. "You said it was one of the first things you’d read that made you think maybe harnessing the magic of the nemeton could be good. So I had to. I had to try."

Scott’s voice is hushed and he keeps looking away. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. You’re gonna make me cry.”

"If you cry, I’ll cry."

"Then we can sob together," Scott says with a hitched laugh. He shakes his head, rubs at his eyes. "This makes my present to you suck so badly."

Stiles makes grabby hands. “What’d you get me?”

Scott reaches over the side of his bed, brings up a shoebox. Inside, there’s a pair of light-up Heelys. They’re ridiculous and they’re awesome and Stiles’ heart feels four sizes too big for his chest. Seems like he’s not the only one who remembers months’ old conversations.

He puts them on immediately and he knows his face is splitting in two because of his manically happy grin. Scott’s answering look of joy is so sweet, Stiles hopes he remembers it forever.


	17. Mutual Masturbation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Scott or Stiles having some “private time” and the other accidentally walking in."

Imagine Scott and Stiles filming one of their sex sessions — “We’re not calling it that, Stiles, no alliteration.”/”I’m not gonna start referring to it as tender lovemaking.”/”There was nothing tender about it. I still have your teethmarks on my ass.”/”Only because you won’t let them heal, Scotty. Grr.” — SO they’ve filmed using Scott’s laptop, and honestly Stiles hasn’t thought much about it, because there’s been some lowgrade monster crap to be dealing with, until there wasn’t any more. 

Then one day he’s crashing into Scott’s bedroom to find him on his bed, sweats tangled against his ankles and top pulled up under his armpits, as he holds onto his cock. He isn’t stroking, not fucking up into his fist, just grasping himself as he moans on screen. There’s come on his abs; slick, glistening ropes of it. He’s clearly started the show without him, and Stiles would be envious, or annoyed, or anything other than desperate to get his mouth on Scott if he had an ounce more blood in his body, but at the moment he doesn’t care even a little.

Scott barely looks up at him, but when he does his eyes flash red for a second, before revealing themselves to be the darkest Stiles has ever seen them — all pupil — and Stiles is fumbling with his belt and shucking off his own clothing in nine seconds flat. 

"Yo, dude. Enjoying yourself? How’s it look?"

"Can’t always see much. We may need to invest in some better lighting, but it sounds — have you been practicing your editing skills? Is this someone else I’m hearing?"

Stiles listens in for a few seconds, long enough to confirm, even though he knows for a certainty — “Nope, that’s all you.” Every, last bitten off sob, every breathy grunt, every high-pitched word. 

He’s naked and next to Scott without conscious memory of getting there and Scott uses his free hand to smear lube over his cock, until he’s almost too wet — but he loves it like that, always has done, and he’s arching up into Scott’s steady rhythm as he watches himself rim Scott into whines and whimpers.

Scott moves over a little, hooks his ankle over one of Stiles’ and keeps him grounded even as he brings him to new heights.

"Sorry for interrupting you, earlier," Stiles lies after he’s sated, nuzzling into Scott’s neck.

"Honestly, I expected you earlier. I’d been waiting for you."

"If you call jizzing all over yourself waiting, sure."

"That was the icing on the me cake."

"You’re ridiculous."


	18. Nourishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Scott or Stiles trying to go down on the other, under the table, during dinner."

So I firmly believe both Scott and Stiles know how to cook. Scott is infinitely better than Stiles, for sure, but Stiles can make acceptable meals if he has to. (He just so happens to always be ready with excuses as to why he doesn’t have to - especially now that he and Scott are at the Pufnstuf part of their relationship. When he says that, Scott squints at him with the most adorable nose-scrunch.)

Sometimes they go for quick and easy; chicken stir fry, or mac & cheese, or defrosting a crockpot stew made 2 months before. But sometimes they want to do something special, something that takes time. Scott gets his spices all lined up — “One day, I will make you a rack.”/”Last woodworking project we had you almost sliced off both your thumbs.”/”One day I will get Dad to make you a rack.” — Stiles is on chopping duty. They navigate around each other seamlessly; quick touches to smalls of backs, short points to ask for things, the occasional elbow nudge. It smells amazing - rich and hearty and nourishing. 

While stirring and waiting, Stiles has gotten to the point he’s super turned on. Competent, domestic Scott is an incredibly hot Scott, okay? He pushes his sleeves up and shakes spice jars like he should have his own show on the Food network. His wielding of a wooden spoon is all kinds of dangerous, because it is swift and meticulous and mesmerizing. 

By the time they sit down to eat, even though the first mouthful is heavenly and the second has Stiles moaning in appreciation, all he really wants to do is get Scott howling — provide for him, like Scott is always providing. He pretends to drop his fork and goes down on his knees to retrieve it, but while he’s there he settles himself between Scott’s legs and goes to town. 

Scott chokes out a shocked, “Stiles”, but doesn’t push him away. He slides down further in his chair and doesn’t protest when Stiles tugs his jeans and briefs down to his calves. There’s a thump on the table top when Stiles sloppily mouths at his cock, teasing the head as he grips the base. 

"Aren’t you hungry?" Scott whines.

Stiles slides off. “You really want me to stop to utter the cliché line of yes, I’m starving, but only for you? ‘Cause I’ll do it, Scott, I’ll make you wait and start monologuing about needing to taste your pure, white cream.”

Scott doesn’t utter another word. In fact, he slides down deeper, brushes his fingers through Stiles’ hair. Stiles smiles in victory and gives Scott the greatest blowjob he can. 

And if his dinner’s cold by the time he gets to it, knees and throat sore, but soul satisfied, he doesn’t notice and doesn’t care. It’s just as delicious. 

"It must be all that essence of Scott I added," he says with a smug grin.

Scott kicks his shin under the table.


	19. Bedsharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompts: Scott or Stiles moaning the other’s name & pinning the other against a wall.

Neither of them sleeps very well anymore. It is what it is. It’s easier when they’re together, which would be fine if they were _together_ , but they’re not, yet. Scott hopes it’s yet. He’s caught Stiles staring at him a couple times, but when he tries to ask about it, there’s evasiveness and dismissal. He won’t push. It’s been a long year. And anyway, he wonders if it’d look like they’re trying to get revenge on Kira and Malia and that is so far from what he wants. He’s happy for them, he really is, even if he misses Kira sometimes and finds himself hoping Malia appreciates her the way he always wanted to. But - well - this thing with Stiles? It’s been going on since he can remember, even though he didn’t realize until recently just what it means to him. It’s been a _long_ year.

Stiles has started crashing at his place when his dad’s at work. He says it’s because he can’t stand the silence, but it started happening two days after Scott almost got shot in the head, so he’s not sure quiet’s a problem. They’re plenty uncommunicative sometimes, even if they should have a lot to say. 

It’s three-thirty something in the morning and Scott’s not sleeping. Stiles is curled up next to him and is doing a half-snuffle half-snore thing, which should be lulling him to dreamland, but his mind’s racing. When he gets like this, the best thing is to try not to fight it. The more he thinks about it, the less calm he feels, the likelier it is he’ll be seeing the dawn without having had a moment of shut-eye.

When Stiles starts to wrestle with his comforter and murmur his name, Scott brushes his hand up his arm soothingly. Sometimes it works and Stiles will settle. Not tonight. Stiles almost yells, a broken-sounding, “Scott”, then shoves him up against the wall, effectively pinning him in place. It’s a mirror of how Stiles saved him. It hurts like hell.

"Hey, Stiles, you’re safe. I’m safe," Scott says, voice sounding louder than he means it to. 

Stiles blinks awake and eases up, breathing heavily. 

"Not again?" he asks, withdrawing. "I’m so—-"

"Don’t apologize," Scott interjects, clasping hold of Stiles’ forearms, dragging him close again. "I wasn’t sleeping anyway."

Stiles lets himself be maneuvered. He’s strangely pliable late at night. It’s been contributing to Scott’s cacophony of thoughts. They stare at each other for a while, Scott pressed up against the wall and surprisingly comfortable, with Stiles’ hands on him and his eyes glittering in the dark. 

Scott has never thought of himself as particularly noble. He’s always wanted to be, but he’s aware of his shortcomings. He tries, but he’s a teenager, with a teenager’s body, hormones and impulses. Having Stiles’ hands on him has his blood racing, has his heart beating hard against his rib cage.

It’s like Stiles knows. He shifts his hand up Scott’s side. "What’re you thinking?"

"i was thinking the next time I hear you moan my name in the dark I hope it’s for a good reason."

"Like what?"

"Can you moan while I kiss you?"

"I don’t know, I guess I could, but… what?"

"If you wanted me to kiss you, I mean."

"Do you want to kiss me?"

"Frequently."

Stiles’ hands move again, this time as more of a caress. He chucks Scott under the chin, and it’s simultaneously the sweetest and silliest thing he’s done for a long time. “Maybe we should test it out?”

The ‘t’ makes it hard for the moan to really work, especially when they’re tangled up in each other, the kiss deep and all-encompassing, but Scott’s already started thinking of other things he could do that’d keep Stiles’ mouth free and ready to call for him.


	20. Baked Off

It’s supposed to be a competition. Scott knows he should be, like, cackling in delight that Stiles’ croquembouche is collapsing before everyone’s eyes, but he _likes_ Stiles. Stiles is confident in a way he’s never been, determined like he’s never known, and deeply, darkly funny in a way Scott’s never dared. So it’s jeopardizing his chances of being Star Baker — hell, they may even both get kicked off — but he lends both of his hands and his spun sugar. 

He can claim it’s patriotism. The only two Americans sticking up for each other. Or meninism; the only two guys. No. He’d never do that second one. The thought leaves a disgusting taste in his mouth. 

Stiles gazes at him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen, mouth opening and closing rapidly. He has a smear of choux pastry over his nose, and chocolate ganache by his lips. He looks scrumptious. 

“Are you insane?” Stiles asks, reattaching the top profiteroles that keep trying to escape. His eyes dart everywhere, wildly.

“Probably,” Scott admits. 

They’ve maybe spoken four times, before this? Enough that Scott has developed a crush, not enough to fully justify it. Not enough to warrant this kind of fealty. 

The 2 camera crews are on the other side of the tent, focused on Mel and Sue’s impromptu dance around current favorite Raquel. Scott saw Mel looking straight at them thirty seconds ago. He knows a rescue when he sees one. 

For instance, a pyramid of profiteroles in front of him, finally holding up on their own. He steps away, back toward his own workbench. 

“If I ever have the chance to repay you, I will,” Stiles promises. He’s so earnest. He’s never been earnest before. Scott wants to see all of Stiles’ different flavors. Wants to taste them.

“Teach me how to make a perfect crème pat,” he ventures, “Before next weekend, if we both survive? Mine always turns into scrambled eggs.”

He’s being the bravest he’s ever been, and that’s including his showstopper of a 3d cake in the shape of a werewolf howling at the moon. 

Stiles rests back on his heels, gives him a cocky head-tilt. “I’ll have you creating crème pâtissière so silky and smooth, my dad’ll want to put you into custody.”

Scott freezes in place, heart beating as fast as his stand mixer beats his buttercream.

“… am I imagining things or did you just attempt to flirt with me using the world’s worst pun?” 

“Yes,” Stiles says. He swipes some buttercream with his index finger and pops it in his mouth, pulling it out in the next second with an obscene slurp. “I’ll let you decide which question that’s answering.”


	21. You Have Reached Your Destination

They’re at college, and Stiles doesn’t really understand how they’ve gotten to this point, but they have and he’d never change it. This is a whole new level of buddies and he’s great with that. Because when he’s there learning all the things that make Scott moan, all the things that make him smile, he’s in a happy place. He hasn’t had too many of them in his lifetime, he’ll grab onto the ones he’s got. Scott’s so good at telling him what he likes, so Stiles tells him he’s incredible, and oh — _oh yeah_ , Scott loves praise. He’ll exploit that. 

And Stiles has had a lot of amazing sex with a few people now; people he’s loved, people who’ve meant the world to him — he’s practiced, he’s developed, he’s experienced. But sometimes being with Scott makes him feel brand new. Judging everything according to Scott’s reactions and requests has gotten him questioning everything he thought he understood. He doesn’t know much of anything with Scott beneath or above him, and he never thought he’d like that, but God, he does.

He loves how Scott will buck up into him when he straddles his thighs and holds down his wrists, gets greedy for how his eyes will darken when he demands Stiles stop delaying the inevitable. It’s one of the only moments Scott will ask something for himself. They’ll trade snark before they kiss, before Stiles slides into him, and it’s like nothing’s changed and everything has all at once. He never wants to hurt Scott — Scott’s been hurt too many times, his whole life through — but Scott asks for his mark, and Stiles knows that denial and omission can occasionally be a worse kind of pain. So he’ll bite down and suck, sometimes. He’ll hold tighter than he might otherwise. He’ll drive into Scott with all his strength and carve a hole only he can fill. 

Other times, quiet times. times he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to have again (times he didn’t want when he was younger, and how _stupid_ was he?), he’ll lie in Scott’s arms and listen to his slow, steady breathing. He’ll softly poke at the hickie Scott’s not healing and twist to stare into his eyes. They’ll share a smile; gentle, knowing. And Stiles thinks it doesn’t matter how they came to be here, like this. For once, the journey wasn’t the important part. They’ve arrived at an understanding.


	22. Maybe You're My Savior After All

This is technically the third time they’ve gotten married. The first time had been all for show — they hadn’t meant it, or at least, they’d each thought the other hadn’t. Deucalion had crawled back into Beacon Hills with a group of emissaries and tried to lay claim to the land, so Dr. Deaton had suggested this ritual binding Scott and his emissary together. 

Amusing thing about that — they hadn’t known Stiles was Scott’s emissary until Alan told them. Stiles has been learning about magical intent since then. He’d be the first to admit he’s not amazing. Some days, he barely has the will to style his hair, let alone imbue ordinary objects with magical properties.

So they’d gotten married, in front of their friends, family, and a bunch of strangers. It’d been a surprisingly pleasant ceremony, and a lovely reception, given the circumstances. They’d written their own vows, and maybe Scott should’ve realized Stiles’ sincerity then, but he’d been working so hard not to let his own show.

They’d spent the night in the same room, but in separate beds. It was like they were kids again, a sleepover because Stiles’ mom was sick. It made Scott ache. 

They were still married when they went to Vegas. Married, but not really talking. Stress and heartache had started to separate them. Everything felt cold. Barren. They continued to work together, though, and they were on the trail of an artifact that Derek said could help them harness the power of the nemeton. Scott wisely pointed out that the nemeton had brought enough fuckery into their lives. Everyone had been surprised enough that he’d managed a dramatic entrance unlike any he’d ever had before. 

But they still went after the artifact, because better it be in their hands than someone else’s. The thing about _that_ , though, is that it could also temporarily make an Alpha human again. And let said Alpha get drunk. _So drunk_. Scott had never been drunk before; not blinding, uninhibited, wasted, foolish and so in love it hurt. 

He doesn’t remember that ceremony. There’s a picture of him, Stiles and an Elvis impersonator. They have new ill-fitting matching gold bands. They woke up disoriented; Scott in the bathtub, Stiles on the floor. Scott still can’t recall whose suggestion it had been, why they’d ever thought it was a good idea. He can’t tell if the sloppy make-outs in his mind are imagination or memory. 

He likes to think they’re imagination, so that he can say he remembers when Stiles first kissed him back, when he first kissed Stiles. So he can tell their grand-kids about the arguing and the shock and the sudden revelations.

(”Oh my God, you’re in love with me,” Stiles had said, cheeks pink. 

Scott hadn’t known true anger until that moment. “How could I not be?”

“Because I love you too, and I haven’t gotten what I’ve wanted in a really long time.”)

This may be their third wedding, the third time they’ve gotten married, but Scott would do it all again. He stands across from Stiles, pours out his heart and doesn’t have to hide that he’s doing so, doesn’t have to shutter his eyes or glance away. Four doesn’t seem excessive. Neither does five. He’ll marry Stiles every year if he has to. If it means he gets to hold him and never let go. 

He tells Stiles this at the reception, and he thinks Stiles will tease him mercilessly, or roll his eyes, or make some other witty, biting remark, but Stiles blushes and says Scott has him, always. Says he feels the same.

They dance around the room, the music slow and hypnotic. Stiles tips their foreheads together, clasping Scott’s hand in a firm, warm embrace. Scott guides them carefully through a waltz, his heart beating in perfect 3/4 time.


	23. Paranoia (Party Game)

Seriously, can you imagine the pack lounging on the McCalls’ living room floor.

They’re so tired and loaded with sugar it’s almost like they’re drunk. Mason’s asked Malia to show him her claws six times now, eyes lighting up every time she does. Liam’s spent twenty minutes complaining about Hayden and her perfect hair and her doll-like face and her constant lack of forgiveness. Lydia and Kira have been engaging in a polite argument about movies that Stiles admits he wouldn’t have thought Lydia would have seen. Which starts a not so polite argument.

And Scott’s exhausted, but he thinks it’s funny when Mason and Liam suggest they play paranoia, says it’s a great idea. He hasn’t played too many games like it - seven minutes in heaven when he was fourteen (he and Stiles ended up trying on all the coats in the closet to test who could wear the most. He won), spin the bottle last year. And it is funny. There’s a lot of joking, loud exclamations, and prediction going on. 

Stiles answers, “Scott” for every question he’s whispered. They move around the room several times after the first three questions, so it’s different people asking, and Scott assumes totally different questions each time, yet still Stiles answers with Scott’s name. Plus, the flip flop only flips face up once. Scott’s sure Stiles has learned some kind of trick so it always flops. 

“Who have you had the most kinky dreams about,” was the question Scott knows was asked, and he’s not surprised, or uncomfortable, but he is curious. He’s deliberately been avoiding using his super hearing, but he sure is tempted. 

Things are still a little strained between them sometimes. He can’t tell if this is Stiles’ idea of an olive branch or a challenge. He isn’t sure which he wants the most.

“Who would you most like to kiss right now?” Mason whispers, so tame compared to everyone else. Lydia asked him whether he owns any sex toys. His yes was so flat-voiced everyone ignored it, but she’d pulled a considering face and raised an eyebrow. 

Scott’s frequently truthful as well as honest. “Stiles,” he says out loud, wondering how he wants the flip flop to fall. 

When Mason repeats the question, Stiles’ eyes bore through him. 

“Okay, Scotty,” he says, quiet and serious, like only Scott should be able to hear him. 

There’s whooping and catcalling, but Scott ignores them as he leads Stiles out of the room, up the stairs, into his bedroom.

“You wanting to ask me what my deal is?” Stiles asks, posture withdrawn and tight.

“Is that the only reason you came up here?” Scott returns, wrong footed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d misread a situation. Possibly the worst, though, and some of the others had led to death and dismemberment.

Stiles shakes his head, like words have deserted him. He isn’t looking up anymore, staring at the carpet like it’s mortally offended him. 

“For once, your answer isn’t Scott,” Scott prods, softly. He steps closer to Stiles, signals his intent to touch him, waits for an indication it’s all right. Stiles glances at his hand and then grasps it, softly.

“Who would I die for, who was my first kiss, who has the best ass, whose toes would I lick raspberry syrup off, if I had to leave forever and could only say goodbye to one other person who would I say it to?” Stiles says in a rush. His hand tightens against Scott’s incrementally, until his grip is tight, but not painful.

“Who would you most like to kiss right now?” Scott asks, gently.

Stiles’ answer isn’t his name. It’s so much better. Scott’s breath shudders out of his body as Stiles envelops him in his warm embrace. Stiles’ lips are warm and wet; exacting, as if he knows precisely what to do to have Scott eager for more. Scott can play that game too. Scott’s the alpha of that game.

It’s like everything has changed and nothing has, like they will always be each other’s first answer.

“I don’t have any raspberry syrup,” Scott says, after a couple more drugging kisses and he has to break the tension somehow, or they’ll spend the rest of the night up here, trying to muffle their voices and probably failing dismally. “I think I have caramel.”

Stiles pushes him to the side and swallows a grin. “You were my last resort.”

“You’re my first.”


	24. Seems to be the Hardest Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 5a episode "Lies of Omission". “You think I’m less than?” Scott asks, his heart racketing inside so hard, any second it’s going to break. The ‘human’ goes unsaid. The ‘human’ is unnecessary.

“You think I’m less than?” Scott asks, his heart racketing inside so hard, any second it’s going to break. The ‘human’ goes unsaid. The ‘human’ is unnecessary.

They’ve talked. He knows the truth about Theo. About Donovan. They’re dealing with it, together. But this. This sticks in him like a sword through his gut. It shadows him like the darkest pitch. Like a void.

“More than,” Stiles replies, mouth drawn into a tight, thin line. He spreads his hands. “You know that, you have to.”

“That isn’t fair, Stiles,” Scott points out. “That isn’t any better. Why am I expected to be infallible? Why am I expected to rise above everything? To withstand anything? I need to be able to get things wrong too. I need my pain to be noticed sometimes. I’m not a sensible, senseless object.”

“I know that. I wasn’t thinking.”

“But you were. You always are. Isn’t that your thing? You think too much, all the time, about things that drag you down? You needed to drag me down with you.”

Stiles’ expression goes from contrite to furious. “You didn’t trust me.”

“I trusted you,” Scott corrects. He looks down at the ground, waits for it to swallow him whole. “But not in the way you’d want.”

Stiles starts to pace. “Yeah. It’s pretty obvious you believe I’m a remorseless killer. Got the memo. In triplicate.”

“In defense of others? Yeah. I believe it. Can you blame me? After everything we’ve seen? Everything we’ve done? Everything you’ve said?”

Stiles swallows thickly. His heartbeat is sluggish. Scott notices it all and tries not to let it make him want to reach forward and hold him tight. “I shouldn’t. Blame you. But I do anyway.”

Scott is aching. It’s a wound he can’t heal, won’t recover from any time soon. It’s pain no one can leech. He isn’t sure there are that many people who’d want to.

“So where do we go to from here?”, he asks, more for something to say than because he’s curious. They can’t go home again. Can’t make things the way they’d always been, before.

“We? What, like, us, moving, in the same direction? You really want that, Scotty?”

“Of course I want that. But is it possible? If your answer’s that we go in opposite directions, I get it.”

Stiles blows out a harsh breath. “I don’t understand you.”

“That much has been obvious for a while.”

“You clearly don’t understand me,” Stiles counters.

“Debatable.” 

Scott draws himself up, waits for the backlash, wonders why he wanted to inspire it. Maybe he needed to see Stiles’ rage for himself. Maybe he needed to justify his instincts, or dismiss them. 

But Stiles doesn’t rage. He deflates, just a little, shoulders going rounded.

“We go forward,” Stiles says, jaw set, mulish. “And try to understand each other again.”

Scott looks at him, can’t help but stare. “That kinda rests on the assumption we ever understood each other in the first place.”

He doesn’t know what he expects, but Stiles looking at him like he’s brighter than the stars combined isn’t it. Stiles stepping forward and holding his hand out like he’s waiting for Scott to allow him to touch him doesn’t come close. 

Scott nods his consent and Stiles rests his fingers on his shoulders, gentle like he almost never is. Scott edges closer, into his heat, until he can grasp his sides in a loose hold. They stand like that for a moment, more, until it doesn’t seem to be enough. Scott bends his head down, rests it against Stiles’ until they’re breathing the same air. It’s a comfort and a curse. It’s security he doesn’t truly have.

“I could apologize, but the words would never be adequate,” Stiles says, quiet, rough.

“Say them anyway. If you mean it.”

“I’m sorry. And you? Are you sorry, Scott?”

“Always needing compensation.” Scott closes his eyes, inhales deeply. “I should be. But I’m not. I think the price of believing the best of each other is believing the worst too.”

“So where do we go to from here?”

“Forward, like you said.”

“Because there’s nowhere else to go?”

“Because you’re my best friend and I’m yours and I can’t imagine that not being true. I can’t imagine us going in separate directions. I don’t want to imagine it. I don’t think you’re capable of cold-blooded murder, you have to understand; I know you’re capable of anything for the ones you love.”

“All right.”

“Yeah?”

“No. Everything’s wrong. But I’m with you anyway.” Stiles nudges harder against his head. “You still got me, if you want me.”

“I still want you. You still want me, even though I’m not a real boy?”

Stiles presses a hand against his cheek, tilts their heads until they can look into each other’s eyes again. Scott moves willingly, all fight in him dispersed, traveling on the breeze. “You feel real to me. No less or more. Foolishly real. Painfully real.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“No. But I think it will be.”


	25. but my love is older than my soul (5.12 episode tag)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.12 spoilers. Title from The Lone Bellow's Tree to Grow.

By the time they make it back to Scott’s house, the paralysis has mostly worn off. He still has tingles in his left foot and his right hand keeps wanting to flick out and flail, but he can walk without needing to rest on Scott. Considering blood is blooming from Scott’s chest, deep red and heartbreaking, Stiles can only think this is a good thing - even though it means they don’t have to be touching any more. Even though it means he can’t feel Scott’s solid warmth along his side.

Stiles has around five hundred and twenty-eight things he wants to say to Scott, but all of them stick in his mouth. When he talked to his dad, they spoke about forgiveness, and at the time Stiles thought he had to forgive Scott. But now he’s seriously questioning why. Because Scott thought the same as Stiles himself? Because Scott had been taken in by the same lies? It doesn’t sit right with him, in his gut, in his bones. He tries to breathe normally, but all his air comes in shallow and rapid.

“Sit down,” Stiles says. 

Scott raises an eyebrow at him; questioning, not defiant. He falls back into the couch with a wince and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with all the guilt festering inside, so he does what he always does in these moments - he acts rashly. He goes to Scott’s room and gets one of his old t-shirts - ratty, too large, covered in stains Scott wouldn’t remember the origins of, bought at least four years ago he’s sure. He recovers the first aid kit from the bathroom.

When he clatters back down the stairs he sees Scott still sitting on the couch, his head tipped back, his neck a long, vulnerable column. The blood has continued to soak through his shirt, but if you only looked at his face, you’d think Scott was almost _content_. And maybe the paralysis hasn’t disappeared entirely, because Stiles finds his knees have locked up and he suddenly doesn’t know how to step forward. 

He decides to go to the kitchen first. Get some water. To drink and to clean. Seems like the best strategy.

He crashes onto the couch beside Scott eventually. Scott opens his eyes and looks at him, still with that edge of happiness - like it doesn’t matter if there’s a Chimera pack, or a giant fuck-off monster roaming through town, and his pack’s in tatters, and he’s half gored to death - as long as he has Stiles near, he’s golden. It twists that guilt up inside and sends it exploding. 

“Can I help you?” Stiles asks, surprising himself. 

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” Scott says, leaning forward and peeling his shirt off with Stiles’ assistance. Stiles’ fingers flutter over his skin, and Stiles tries not to make them linger, tries not to trace all the scars he knows don’t show, but are embedded regardless. He sucks in another shallow, rapid breath. 

The bandage is heavy with Scott’s blood as Stiles places it into the plastic bag he procured from the kitchen. Stiles glances at it, thinking about how constantly Scott must have been bleeding, how much pain he must have been in. 

But he doesn’t comment on it. Can’t say a single of those words tied up behind his tongue. Instead, he dips a washcloth into the water he organized and a second after placing it against Scott’s skin, thinks about how he should have warmed it up. 

Scott flinches a little as Stiles cleans him up, but he also sits back, passive. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t hiss. He lets Stiles drag the cloth up over his skin, washing away the evidence of hours of suffering. Some of the blood at his sternum has crusted over, gone nearly pitch black, and Stiles has to carefully, gently, keep working at it. It disappears, bit by bit, with each swipe, with every brush, and Stiles wishes that was true of cruel actions and crueler words. No water can erase what’s been said, what’s been done. 

Stiles concentrates at the job at hand, but he can’t help looking up at Scott’s face some of the time; testing his reaction, checking he isn’t still hurting. 

Somehow, Stiles doesn’t think Scott would show him if he was. Stiles thinks Scott may have been hurting a lot longer than he’d ever credit. 

By the time he’s finished cleaning the wound, some of Scott’s blood stains Stiles’ fingers. He stares at it for a long time before he dips them into the water and scrubs it away. 

“Should we let it air for a while?”

“I think it needs to be dried and redressed. I’ll heal better with warmth.”

“Antiseptic?” Stiles asks, looking into the kit.

Scott softly places a hand on his wrist. “No. It’ll irritate it further.”

“You know a lot about mending yourself.”

“I have to. Plus, you know, mom.”

Stiles pats at Scott’s chest with a new, sterile cloth. His own chest feels tight and his jaw aches from how he’s clenching it every time Scott jerks, infinitesimally. Scott helps him figure out how to apply the bandage, stretching back so there won’t be gaps. Stiles anchors him with a hand on his hip, smooths the tape over at the top, the sides, the base. That need to touch Scott is still strong. 

It grounds him. It settles him. It makes breathing come easier, calmer. 

He thinks about what Scott said about warmth and after Scott’s pulled on his ratty gray tee, strips off his checkered shirt. It’s a little grimy, and there’s probably some blood on it somewhere, but he thinks it’ll do in the situation. He wraps it around Scott’s shoulders, to the apparent amusement of Scott, who’s giving him a small, confused smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Scott says. “Or I have. But not toward me.”

“Lies. I was like this for your first four asthma attacks.”

“Oh. Of course. That was, what, ten years ago? And for my fifth, I seem to remember you telling me to ‘cough it out, wheezy’.” 

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Yeah. We can,” Scott says, nodding. He quirks another smile at Stiles, leans over so that they’re pressed against each other again. “Thanks.”

“You don’t owe me any thanks.”

“Maybe not, but you’re getting them anyway. It’s my thing. I thank people when they help me. It’s a strange concept, I know.”

“You thank people even when it’s recompense?”

“It’s only polite.”

“Even if they haven’t begun to make up for the things they’ve done in the past?”

“I don’t see why not. I’m thanking them in the present.”

Stiles closes his eyes, digs the nails of his right hand into his palm. “You ever get tired of being so good all the time?”

One of Scott’s hands settles over his. “I do. But I have you to balance me out.”

When Stiles opens his eyes again, their faces are inches apart. They’re sharing breath, radiating heat. Stiles can see every blemish on Scott’s skin, every fine hair. Scott’s expression is open and trusting. He’s waiting for one of those seemingly permanently stuck words. 

It comes out of Stiles in a rush.

“I’m sorry.” He sucks in a quick breath, then another one. “I’m sorry for blaming you. I’m sorry for hitting you.”

Scott strokes his thumb over the top of Stiles’ hand. “It’s okay. I accept your apology. I accepted it when you came over earlier.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Actually, that was my forgiveness.”

Scott frowns at him. “For being late?”

“For being dead.”

“Oh.”

They’re still close, closer than they’ve been in a long time. It takes no effort at all for Stiles to close the gap and press a kiss against Scott’s lips. It’s the worst timing, but it’s the connection he needs. An affirmation. A _confirmation_ , of all those words Stiles can’t say, but holds in his heart.

It’s a dry, chaste kiss. A peck more than anything. Scott gives a small, curious hum, and then kisses Stiles back with something softer, lingering. Stiles licks at the seam of Scott’s lips and loses himself to another kiss, and another, until he can’t tell where they begin and end. 

Kind of like their friendship.


	26. Sacrifice (not!fic)

The nemeton requires a sacrifice. But not death. Not blood. Not anymore. It demands something more complex than that. It tells Scott, over and over, that he has to give his powers to the people in his pack in order to restore balance. Having a True Alpha is inviting disorder, inviting challenge. 

Scott decides to give his extra strength to Hayden and Malia. He knows they will use it responsibly, that it won’t be too much for them, that it will work well with the skills they already have. His sight he gives to Kira, because she already sees so much. His hearing he bestows to Lydia, because it will help filter the voices that haunt her. His speed goes to Liam and Mason, so that if they need to run, they can. Whether that’s toward danger or away from it will be up to them. 

He’s going to give his ability to heal to Stiles, but Stiles rejects it. 

“Allow me to drain pain instead,” Stiles says, voice quiet, eyes fixed. 

“I don’t think you understand how it works,” Scott answers back. “It hurts, to pull pain away from others, to keep it for yourself.”

“I understand,” Stiles says. “I want it anyway.”

Scott’s tired of arguing. He does what Stiles asks, even though it fills him with dread. 

He splits his healing powers with his mother, Stiles’ father, and Alan, instead. After a lot of convincing from his pack, he keeps some for himself.

The nemeton appears appeased. Supernatural foes begin to lessen. Scott starts to get used to being ‘normal’ again. It doesn’t stop him from fighting when he needs to. Doesn’t mean he walks away from what he considers his duty. He helps people whenever they need it, whenever he can.

His pack supports him, just as he supports them. They continue to work as a team.

And late at night, Stiles crawls into Scott’s room and lays a hand on his forearm, takes his anguish over not being able to do more, takes his sorrow at the injustice of others’ suffering, as well as the physical pain Scott harbors from having tried to do too much. Stiles takes his pain and says it’s no burden, because helping Scott in any way he can lightens the load.


	27. Bedsharing redux

Stiles attempting to sing Scott to sleep, because being back in Beacon Hills for the first time after having been at college is unexpectedly harrowing and Scott woke up whimpering, his eyes screwed shut, his hands curled into tight fists. 

Melissa used to sing to them when they were little. Something has to help.

Stiles forgetting the words and getting the tune all wrong, so Scott joins in, helps him. Soon they’re harmonizing with each other in the darkness of the night.

The Sheriff’s voice calling over from the next room. “Just so you boys know, sex noises would be less traumatizing.”


	28. Massage

I want you to think about Stiles massaging Scott’s back after college lacrosse games because Scott finally admits that, despite the wolfy super-healing, he still gets aches and pains. Think about how Stiles uses those long, strong fingers of his to knead into the muscles, how he settles on Scott’s upper thighs and puts his body weight into it. How he swallows and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling of their dorm room every time Scott moans thickly. How he buys scented oils and offers them with a furtive blush, eliciting the sweetest, gentlest smile Scott’s ever given him, and a “Thanks, dude. I appreciate it.”

I want you to think about everyone new they encounter calling them the ultimate bromance, how Stiles feels so guilty about how much he likes touching Scott, about the trap of a life-long friendship that is everything to Stiles but still not quite what he wants. How he dreads the quiet moments they spend together as much as he adores them, because he’s sure any day he’s going to slip and admit he always wants to do this, any hour his hands will linger on Scott’s body for too long, any second he’ll blurt out his feelings and make things awkward.

I want you to think about Scott one day asking for a massage and stripping out of his shirt as soon as Stiles has said, “Sure”. How he hands over one of the oils and gives Stiles a long, considering look before he ducks forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips. Think about Scott carefully analyzing Stiles’ reaction and finding it meets his expectations. How he bites at his own lower lip and adds, “Just in case you were wondering.”

“Wondering what?” Stiles asks, eyes wide, hands twisting the bottle of massage oil around and around, because this can’t be real, this isn’t something he’s allowed.

“If this means the same to me as it does to you.”

I want you to think about Stiles leaning in to Scott and kissing him until they’re both gasping, about the sheen of oil on Scott’s skin as they slip and slide against each other, about the sounds they both make when they tangle up on the bed. I want you to think about the gentle pressure Stiles uses as he eases away Scott’s tension and the focus and calm he feels in providing for his best friend, the person he’s in love with the most in the world, who somehow, magically, is in love with him too.


	29. Soulmarked (But Not For Each Other)

Imagine Scott and Stiles living in a universe where soulmarks are common. They’re initials scrawled into the skin, or mirrored flecks of colour in irises, or tunes only soulmates can hum to each other.

And imagine Scott and Stiles not being soulmates. It’s definite. They don’t match. They’ve never revealed they wished they did, just felt it, deep down in their bones, in the beat of their hearts.

Imagine the hours Scott’s spent, trying to convince himself he’ll feel differently when he meets his true soulmate. Trying to assure himself that he may love Stiles with a depth that scares him, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be incapable of loving his intended. The pain and horror he feels when he discovers his soulmate is Peter Hale – a man who becomes obsessed with him, but not in the right way – who talks about how good he is like it’s a personal affront and something to be conquered.

Imagine Stiles waiting, and waiting, and waiting, all the while falling deeper and deeper in love with Scott. How he knows it’s hopeless, impossible. He won’t get what he wants, won’t be the one to give Scott what he needs, no matter how much he’s compelled to. He isn’t going to say anything about these feelings initially, but there’s a day when Scott goes to him so distraught, so convinced there must be something wrong with him if he’s intended for Peter, that Stiles tells him. Stiles confesses his love, strong and abiding. Promises Scott he’s worth the world.

Imagine Scott and Stiles not being soulmates, but choosing each other anyway.


	30. A Wink and a Smile

So um, a lot of us think Scott and Stiles have probably fooled around pre-show, right? Like, that seems like a given in at least 6 out of 10 fics/ficlets. Scott and Stiles were each other’s first, second, ninth kiss and fumble. It was just bros being dudes and they don’t think about it a whole lot after the werewolf thing because chaos.

I have this headcanon that one of the times they were learning what to do with their hands, Stiles winked at Scott. He winked, all affectionate and teasing. So now Scott constantly associates Stiles using that expression with… well, boners. Let’s put it out there. Stiles winks and Scott either springs a boner, or comes close to springing a boner.

Fast forward to college, sophomore year. (Not Freshman, because Scott was all about the grades and didn’t have enough blood in his body to devote to this quarter-formed crush and duty to school.) They’re roommates. They fall asleep on the same twin frequently because the other’s covered in notebooks and other detritus. 

One morning, Scott’s doing one of his required readings with Stiles tucked up under his arm. Stiles rubs his face into Scott’s side and snuffles, and Scott can’t help but smile down at him just as he opens his eyes and blinks awake.

And what does Stiles do? 

What does that little shit do to his best friend in the whole world when he wakes up basking in his warmth?

He winks, lips curling up on one side.

Scott’s breath catches in his chest, his stomach drops and twists at the same time, his blood goes rushing, thick and fast. I think you can see where this is headed, right? The destination’s in sight. Bonerville – population: 1 Scotty McCall.

Scott’s mouth is dry and he makes a husky croaking sound, to the bemusement of Stiles, who’s pushing himself up and away. 

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

But he’s not. He’s not okay. He’s not fine. He’s right back remembering what it was like to be on a hair trigger, the hand Stiles can’t see digging claws into the bedding. 

“Yeah, you are,” Stiles says, and he winks again. Careless. Reckless. Downright mean. Scott isn’t sure if he genuinely hasn’t noticed the effect it’s always had on Scott or whether he has and he’s playing.

Scott can’t be held accountable for his reaction, for the words that spring unbidden from his mouth. 

“If you wink at me again, I think I’m gonna have to kiss you.”

Stiles looks authentically surprised. “What? Why?”

“Because your winking does things to me, and I don’t know if I can adequately retaliate without using my lips and tongue.”

Stiles’ expression becomes calculating. Analytical. 

“That’d be a goddamned travesty,” Stiles murmurs. “I don’t know how I’d cope.”

And he winks, smug and confident and not even a little prepared.


	31. Your Lips Against My Skin

Scott lifting up Stiles’ hand as their fingers are entwined and kissing the back of it. Stiles brushing his nose up the inside of Scott’s wrist before placing a soft, dry kiss against his darkened veins. 

Or, oh god, what if they’re not even together yet and Scott’s putting his palm against Stiles’ mouth to get him to shut up so they don’t scare away the pokémon. 

“You know it doesn’t work like that!” Stiles says, muffled, then licks a broad, damp stripe against Scott’s palm, and Scott is stunned still for ten seconds, trying to adjust his stance because his pants are uncomfortably tight, and Stiles hasn’t noticed, hasn’t seen. 

But after that, Scott’s obsessed with the idea of his hands meeting Stiles’ mouth. He swipes away crumbs from Stiles’ bottom lip with his thumb, his eyes locked onto where they meet. He thinks about putting his fingers into Stiles’ mouth and getting them wet, feeling Stiles’ tongue against his skin again. It becomes a preoccupation. 

One day they mock-wrestle against the couch, and Stiles playfully bites into side of Scott’s hand, and Scott can’t take it anymore, he groans, whole body tensing then going lax. 

“Do that again?”

Stiles frowns at him for a second before he does, tentatively bending forward and taking a small, delicate nip. 

“You like that,” he says, awed and accusatory at once. 

“I really do,” Scott confesses, because god. 

So then Stiles licks up his pinky, watching Scott closely. Scott doesn’t know what his expression reveals, but Stiles’ eyes go dark and he sucks in two of Scott’s fingers, cheeks hollowing. 

Scott’s one careless rub away from coming in his pants.


	32. Scent kink not!fic

It’s canon that Scott either unintentionally or intentionally reads Stiles’ chemosignals, right? Stiles’ particular smell must be like an old friend to him by now.

So, um, what about him gradually really getting into Stiles’ scent? (Maybe it starts out as a comfort thing. Maybe it’s actually the opposite, him being attracted to danger. Either way, even faint traces of Stiles have his body reacting strongly.) 

He really likes it when Stiles hasn’t showered for a couple days, which is NOT something he would have said 3 years ago. He borrows Stiles’ plaid button-ups under the guise of being cold. He hangs out on Stiles’ bed while waiting for him to bring food from the Commons, nuzzling into his pillow and his sheets. He can pinpoint the exact last time Stiles made close friends with his hand and rather than be repulsed, he finds himself chubbing up in his jeans.

He doesn’t get it at first, that this is what he’s doing, or what his reactions signify, but when he figures it out he does not stop.

“Dude, are you… sniffing my neck?” Stiles says one day as they’re sitting on Scott’s bed, half-watching netflix on the laptop between them. It’s the first break either of them has had in a week.

“Mmm, you smell good,” Scott replies.

“I’ve been studying for four and a half days straight and I haven’t gone remotely close to water.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says with a wide-eyed blink and a hand placed on Scott’s arm that sets Scott’s blood racing even faster. “This is a new development.”

“One that you’re happy about,” Scott points out, because yep, Stiles’ scent has shifted subtly, and the undertones are overwhelmingly positive – warmer, sweeter.

“Yeah, I am,” Stiles agrees. He drags Scott closer again and tips his head up so Scott can scent his clavicle. He practically whines when Scott presses an open-mouthed kiss at his pulse point. 

“I might not ever shower again,” Stiles moans an indeterminate amount of time and kissing later.

Scott wrinkles his nose. “Let’s not be too hasty.”


	33. Part-time Job

I keep thinking about Stiles getting a part time job over the summer on the sly because he keeps thinking about how hard Scott works all the time, how hard he’s been working since he was 15, and he knows Scott denies himself a lot of creature comforts because he’s scrimping and saving. 

Stiles has always been lucky, his dad is paid adequately and their house was owned outright by his grandparents. He got compensation from Eichen House to pay for a lot of his books and some of his college fees. But he needs the job for the extra cash he wants.

So Stiles will slip a $50 note in Scott’s wallet every now and then, covert as he can be. He’s happy when Scott frowns at it, but shrugs, murmurs how his mom must have left it there for him. He slips more cash peeking out from under or behind his dresser, ready for a moment Scott will find it. He treats him to hot chocolate, saying it was free because it was made with full fat instead of soy. Sends a pizza to his house with a note that it’s from a secret admirer, but that backfires, because Scott dumps it in the trash on the grounds it’s probably poisoned. He pays for the bike registration before Scott can, sets up a Netflix account under the guise of a free trial, surreptitiously gets his TV fixed and pretends Scott must have had it hooked up wrong.

The problem is, Stiles is also not around a lot, because of the aforementioned job. He’d tried hard to get one during the same hours Scott worked at the clinic, but it was no go. And his hours are weird. His shifts unpredictable.

Scott starts to get suspicious. Thinks Stiles has a new girlfriend or boyfriend he didn’t tell Scott about. He makes sad eyes at Stiles whenever they’re close. Stiles wants to tell him, but he also doesn’t – he knows Scott won’t accept these small gifts, these tiny tokens of affection. He’ll insist on paying him back. 

“You know you can tell me anything,” Scott says, quiet-voiced and sorrow-eyed. Stiles replies that he knows.

“I love meeting new people,” he mentions one day out of the blue. Stiles says they’re usually out to kill them all.

“I’ve been lonely without you,” Scott admits one night.

And damn, Stiles can’t take that. Won’t take it. This whole thing has been orchestrated to make Scott happy, not miserable. 

“Meet me on Main Street at 8 tomorrow morning?” Stiles requests. “I’ll explain.”

When Scott meets him, Stiles is in uniform. His pathetically embarrassing uniform as an anthropomorphized lighthouse for the Beacon Bake House. It consists of a light-up visor, all white jumpsuit with black bands that point directly to his dick, and ugly, uncomfortable platform shoes.

“Why?” Scott asks, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“Because I love you and you deserve nice things,” Stiles says. He’s been up since 5 am for his early morning shift. He’s too tired for subterfuge and the game is over anyway.

“The money,” Scott exclaims, pointing. “I thought maybe I’d unwittingly helped some finance fairy or something.” Then he seems to double-take. His face lights up with a beam. “Wait. You love me?”

“You know I love you,” Stiles says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah, but, you must really love me,” Scott retorts, gesturing at Stiles’ uniform. 

And huh. Stiles hadn’t actually thought of that before, but he can’t deny that it’s true. Suddenly, a lot of seemingly disconnected things start to make sense to him. How he’s been aching to be near Scott even as he’s been deliberately spending his hours out of his company. How he’s spent almost all of his new money on Scott in some way. How he kept thinking about getting Scott to model some new clothes for him, even spent hours looking them up and imagining it, but couldn’t figure out how to pull it off without revealing the truth.

“I do, Scott,” Stiles says. Confesses. “I really love you.”

He doesn’t know for sure how Scott will react, but judging by his warm smile, it won’t be bad. 

“Let me buy you breakfast,” Scott insists. 

Stiles says yes, but he’s already planning on paying for it somehow. This must show in his face, because Scott takes his hands, pulls him close, gives him a small, perfect kiss. He shakes his head lightly, admonishing. Their noses brush together.

“Let me buy you breakfast,” Scott repeats.

“Okay. But only this once,” Stiles relents. “And I’m buying dinner.”

Scott kisses him again, keeps hold of his hand as they walk down the street. “I’ll accept that. But you gotta know, as much as I’ve appreciated your generosity, the only thing I want from now on is you.”


	34. Then, Now, Maybe

Stiles had tried to start the conversation five times, always finding the words running away from him. He’d open his mouth and silence would ensue. Or he’d say something else entirely different from what he’d intended.

He’d said it before. He’d told Scott. But it had been flippant - a joke - off the cuff and not meant to be taken seriously. He wanted Scott to believe him now. Wanted him to recognize the honesty in the words, the undeniable truth. 

But he didn’t know how to express it. Couldn’t string together the correct combination. Every time he thought he was close, he’d get sidetracked, and lose the tempo again, forget the refrain. 

“Remember when we were eleven?” he said one morning, sifting flour for the pancakes they were going to make and watching as Scott whisked the eggs with practiced ease. “How I asked what you thought we’d be doing in ten years’ time?”

“I said we’d be eating breakfast together,” Scott said with a raised eyebrow, smile playing about his lips. “Because it was morning and I’m nothing if not practical.”

Stiles basked in Scott’s smile, couldn’t keep staring at it for fear of never finishing what he’d begun. “I think about that a lot,” he admitted.

Scott pushed his bowl forward for Stiles’ flour, nudging into his side. “Because you’re still trying to find the right time to mock me for it again? I’ve been waiting.”

“Because your default future had me in it, and I never want that to change.”

Scott looked at Stiles, eyes softening. “Me neither.” He stepped out of Stiles’ way at the stovetop and started to juice the oranges they had set aside. “You remember what you said back?”

“Pretty sure all I did was make a ‘duh’ sound.”

“Yep. That sounds about right.”

Stiles watched his batter sizzle, tapped a rhythm against the edge of the counter. 

“I hope we’re eating breakfast together in another ten years’ time,” he said quietly; possibly too quietly. He took a steadying breath to repeat himself, but before he could Scott stepped close and hooked his head over Stiles’ shoulder. 

Scott wrapped an arm around his waist, whispered against his ear. “I’m sure we will be.” 

He helped Stiles flip the pancake, eased himself around until his back was to the counter. Stiles gazed at him, heart drumming fast and heat flooding his face. Scott was biting his lower lip, looking – Stiles wasn’t sure what. Was it nervous? Wry? Bashful?

“I love you too, Stiles,” Scott said, simply, like those words weren’t Stiles’ whole world transforming from dull monotonous gray into color and sound. 

Stiles opened his mouth once, twice. He did the only thing he could do. He reverted to flippant jokes. “You took my moment away from me.”

“How much longer were you expecting me to wait?”

“Uh, how about until I was ready?”

“I didn’t know if that time would ever come.”

Stiles flipped the finished pancake onto a plate and poured another. He grizzled down at the pan. “I still wanna say it.”

“Then say it,” Scott said with a laugh. He looked happy. Seeing that made Stiles feel a kind of joy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Stiles waited a beat, then another, was halfway through the third when he couldn’t bear it any longer and he said it, facing Scott, each word singing through his veins.

“I guess you’ve known how I feel for a while. But I want to be clear anyway, want to tell you. I’ve never imagined a time when we wouldn’t be doing this. When we wouldn’t be together. I love you.”

Scott leaned in close, settled his hands on Stiles’ hips. He smiled again as he narrowed the gap between them. “This is the part where you kiss me.”

So Stiles did. He kissed Scott with everything he had, and added extra. He kissed until he had no breath, no thought in his mind beyond Scott.

And maybe the words were never necessary, but it felt right now that he’d explained to Scott that they were his past, his present, his future.


	35. Accidental Engagement

New couple Scott and Stiles one-upping one another on who can be the most romantic - because little known fact - they’ve always been highly competitive with each other. It’s how they used to get over their loneliness and boredom. Entire weekends lost to board and video game marathons, whole weeks devoted to improving their lacrosse together by trying to beat the other into a metaphorical pulp. (Their current handshake? A cut-down on the 3 minute one they spliced together from the ones they each devised for the prize of five packs of chips when they were 13.)

It becomes an exercise in who can be the most sickeningly sweet, who can be the most stereotypically gooey – and they’re jokes, of course they are, they’re all in the name of levity, up until they’re not. 

Up until Stiles will bring Scott a flower just because it makes him smile.

Up until Scott makes Stiles mix playlists every day for a week, because his chemosignals are all differing concentrations of happiness.

Up until they both plan elaborate, intimate dates and buy custom-designed engagement rings for each other.


	36. Dorkitude Dialed to 11

You know the scene where Scott and Stiles video chat even though they’d literally just seen each other at school?

What if that’s something they do ALL the time? 

What if one or other of them is always coming up with an excuse to contact the other. Like Stiles has driven home after being at Scott’s and he’ll text; 

“what’s the time mr. wolf?”

“ur phone has the time”

“i hid the clock so i could ask u”

“its 10:12. go to sleep.”

“*poop emoji*”

OR, Scott has visited Stiles at his new part-time job at KFC, where he smells like grease always, but also gets free food (that he witnessed being made, so, is that really a good thing?) and he’ll take a snap of himself leaving the place, and another getting his helmet on, and standing by the bike, and not riding home because that would be irresponsible, but definitely having arrived at home, and sends them to Stiles with a “missing u, c u in 35″ caption. 

Or how they’ll be sitting down to eat with the pack and even though they’re literally holding hands under the table, they’re also using yik yak to send each other ‘anonymous’ innuendo, much to the disgust of everyone within a 1.5 mile radius. 

Or how Stiles will take a picture of Scott as he’s sleeping, head resting on his arms, tummy against the bed, sweats hanging low, and send it to him with, “scooty gots da booty”. 

The notification will, of course, wake Scott up, and he’ll smile at Stiles reflexively before looking at his phone, groaning and mock-tackling Stiles to the covers. 

“I can’t believe you woke me up for that picture,” Scott will say, kissing a line over Stiles’ clavicle.

“I didn’t. I woke you up for this,” Stiles will reply, wriggling underneath Scott because it tickles so good. 

After Scott will kiss Stiles thoroughly and open him up so sweetly, take and give and make him anew, he’ll take a picture of Stiles - red lips, pink skin, mussed hair, wrecked in the best way - and send it with the comment, “de-stilesed”.


	37. First Time

Scott’s brow is furrowed and his mouth’s turned down at the corners. Stiles smooths his fingers against the lines, thinking about how wrong it is that even when he’s sleeping, Scott looks concerned. There’s a deep rumble from the middle of Scott’s chest and he cranes into the contact, so Stiles gently, softly massages his forehead, caresses his jaw, until the furrow melts away into a half-smile.

“Morning, sleepy-head,” Stiles murmurs when Scott gazes up at him. 

“Good morning,” Scott replies, before biting at his lower lip. “You haven’t been staring at me all night, have you?”

“Quarter of the night,” Stiles dismisses. “Two thirds at most. You looked kinda worried. Were you having another nightmare?”

Scott frowns again. “What? No.” He hunches his shoulders like he does when he’s nervous. Stiles reflexively rubs at one, feeling all his corded, tense muscle. 

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m honestly not.” Scott purses his lips, gazes at Stiles’ mouth, then his cheek, then his eyes. “I was dreaming about us. Together.”

Stiles loves Scott, but that doesn’t preclude him from indignant outrage. “That look of extreme consternation was because you were imagining us boning?”

Scott wiggles up until he’s sitting against the headboard like Stiles is. The smile he gives is sly and calculating – nothing like his usual Scott expressions – and Stiles thought he’d cataloged every single one. 

“I’m guessing it wasn’t consternation so much as concentration,” he says, his gaze flicking downwards to Stiles’ lap for a beat. 

Indignation gives way to heat. Stiles feels flustered. He thinks if he wasn’t lying down his knees would go weak. This element of their relationship is so new it can still disarm him. They haven’t gotten this far yet. 

They’ve been handsy, and kissy, and cuddly, and that has been everything Stiles has really needed lately. He’s considered other physical wants, but he hasn’t pushed for them – happy with any kind of hold he has on Scott – not wanting to be too much. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, because what else should he say? Yes, please, I need a visual and tactile demonstration? Damn. That is precisely what he should have said.

“If you make me breakfast, I’ll give you a blow-by-blow,” Scott continues, reading Stiles’ mind, teasing smile widening. He looks delighted with himself and it delights Stiles too. He didn’t think it was possible to feel anything more for his dork of a best friend, but there it is – a whole new feeling; a mixture of exasperation, need, amusement, and adoration. 

“I have all the breakfast foods you could ever want,” Stiles says seriously. He starts to extricate himself from the bed. “Eggs, bacon, oatmeal, grits, yogurt, froot loops, pop tarts, waffles, croissants, grapefruit, – stop me anytime.”

“They all sound good,” Scott says. “We’ll need the energy.” 

He gives another devilishly joyous grin and puts his arm around Stiles’ back as Stiles falters and almost face-plants into the carpet. His fingers settle under Stiles’ shirt, brush at the skin of his hip. 

Scott wraps his arms around Stiles’ middle as Stiles scrambles eggs and fries bacon. He nuzzles against the back of his neck when he starts the toast. He hums into the soft skin under his ear as Stiles gets coffee going. 

“I’m holding up my end of the bargain,” Stiles nudges, tilting his head to the side so Scott has more access.

“Oh yeah,” Scott says, starting to worry at Stiles’ skin with soft nibbles. “So, you were trying to teach me how to skateboard.” 

“Okay. And?”

“There was a flying cat nearby. But mostly, you were holding onto my hands, pulling me along, like for real, remember?”

Stiles twists in Scott’s hold, eyes him down. “That was what you were dreaming about? Us, together, when we were eleven?”

“Mmm. It was weird,” Scott says, looking purposefully blissfully innocent. Stiles knows it’s a lie, because Scott’s doing that eye-contact thing he always does when he’s faking. “I think we need to make some new memories, Stiles,” Scott says next. 

“I agree,” Stiles says, staring at Scott’s mouth, how pink and soft it looks. How he’d love to kiss Scott senseless. He tangles his hands up in Scott’s hair, ruffles it. “I still have my board under my bed somewhere.”

Scott tickles him, laughing. They plate up the food together, devour it with legs tangled under the kitchen table. 

After they finish eating they tumble onto the couch for a make-out session that never seems long enough, hands everywhere, bodies sliding, and Stiles smooths his finger over the furrow in Scott’s brow as he settles onto his knees between Stiles’ legs and blows him until he almost wants to cry.


	38. Totally Platonic Touching (Or Not)

How about the one where Scott helps Stiles buzz his hair again. Not for any particularly dramatic reason. Stiles just feels like a change. And hair is minor enough to not cause a massive ripple effect, but ever-present enough to feel exciting. Scott stands behind Stiles and carefully, cleverly cuts, then uses a clipper, watches as the fine hair flutters to the floor.

(He tells Stiles he’s gotten this good because of practice on lots of puppies. Stiles makes a loud whining sound. Feels appropriate.)

For the next week, Scott can’t help but brush his palm against Stiles’ duckling-soft pate. He finds his hand rubbing against Stiles quite without his volition. Stiles moves into each brush, kitten-like, humming low. When Mason tentatively hovers his hand, Stiles allows it, but is clearly biding his time for Scott’s gentle pressure again.

Within the month, Scott scratches his fingernails lightly against Stiles’ scalp whenever they’re sitting close, because Stiles says the growing hair itches. It stops being a believable excuse after four minutes. They sit close often. So frequently, in fact, they basically never sit without being near each other. Everyone looks at them askance, but they don’t care – it’s calming for Scott, comforting for Stiles. It feels good, and they’re well past any guilt over simple pleasures.

So they’ve been this disgustingly intimate in public for weeks and weeks before Derek rolls back into town for a visit, asks when they started dating, and sends their lives for an existential loop. 

“Dating?” Stiles splutters. “Scott won’t even buy me a burger without expecting payment. Exact, swift payment.”

“I’ve gotten you at least six burgers in the last three years out of my own paycheck.”

“As an exchange! Homework help, cleaning your garage, buying you churros, saving your life that one time.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping track.”

“I have an itemized list of favors and debts.”

“Of course you do. Anyway, Derek, why do you think we’re dating?”

At this point, Derek has rolled his eyes no fewer than five times. 

“Because you’re seven eighths cuddling and you’ve been caressing Stiles the entire time you were bickering?”

Scott looks at his hold on Stiles, thinks about how Stiles has been anchoring him against his side, realizes how close they’ve gotten – literally, figuratively, romantically. He presses an experimental kiss to Stiles’ head, ignoring Derek’s annoyed sounding huff.

“Wanna date?”

“Yeah, okay, but I’ll pay. It’ll screw up my system, otherwise,” Stiles says, looking across at Scott with warmth and humor. He returns Scott’s kiss with a peck to Scott’s cheek.


	39. Think About It (NSFW)

Don’t think about Stiles edging Scott until Scott’s a whimpering, writhing mess with heavy-lidded eyes and constant requests for more.

Don’t think about Stiles kissing Scott as tenderly as he can as he finally, finally brings him sweet release.

Don’t think about Stiles murmuring soft praises and assurances into Scott’s skin, telling him he’s beautiful, telling him he’s important, telling him he’s cherished.

Don’t think about Scott flipping Stiles onto his back after one gentle, extended kiss and turning it into something decidedly more passionate, ravenous.

Don’t think about Scott giving as good as he got, until Stiles has a blush that starts at his chest and settles low on his cheeks, his back arching, his lips parted. 

Don’t think about them lying in bed all day, content and sated and full of smug pride over their reckless behavior. They didn’t fight any battles. They didn’t try to save the world. They let themselves be, and it was the best decision they ever made.


	40. Practice Dating

Imagine Scott and Stiles “practice dating” after they’ve been single for two years. Stiles can’t even remember who suggested it, but one day they’re spitballing a list of pretend dates to go on and the next they’re doing it, they’re dating. 

Because, honestly, neither of them has been on a date before. Not really. Not a stereotypical take-your-partner-out-somewhere-feel-awkward-and-enamored date. The closest Scott came was with Allison, and all of their dates were group things. Maybe a couple of his moments with Kira count, but they were always interrupted.

So Scott and Stiles go through the motions, because they want to be successful when they do eventually find people to date. 

They engage in the whole courting ritual, from hesitant texts to wardrobe deliberation. They make reservations at restaurants and tentatively suggest movies. They tell goofy personal stories and act like they haven’t heard them before, or been featured. And some of them are new and never-before-heard and they each learn things about the other they had no idea about. They go to a museum, because Scott loves them, and an all-you-can-eat buffet, because Stiles loves them. They play tourists in LA for a day. 

They hold hands after a few dates, and Scott starts to give Stiles goodnight kisses on the cheek which are warm and sweet and not enough. 

After one such date, that featured starlight and swaying to music in each other’s arms, and a lot of casual touching Stiles didn’t even know he was missing, Stiles pushes Scott back gently before his lips can land.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s fine,” Scott replies, rubbing at the back of his neck and propping his shoulder against the door. They’re outside their apartment and Scott seeming unaffected by Stiles’ denial of the kiss has Stiles’ heart beating twenty times faster.

“I don’t wanna practice date.”

“Yeah, I get the picture, Stiles, no need to smush it into my face even harder.”

“Because I want to really date.”

Scott starts to look actively annoyed, which is a good sign, isn’t it? It means he cares after all. It means he’s frustrated. Because maybe he wants the same thing Stiles does? “I said I understand.”

And that’s it, that tone of voice is everything Stiles needed to push his suspicions to the point that he’s going to take this leap.

“You! I wanna really date you!”

Scott’s slight frown transforms into a sunny smile. Stiles is shocked this didn’t blow up in his face like almost everything else good in his life has. 

“Yeah?” Scott asks, sounding awed. 

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms with a vigorous nod. He thinks about how Scott has looked at him like this before, and how it doesn’t mean he has any kind of answer to the question he hasn’t yet asked. “If you want.”

Scott leans in, takes Stiles’ hand, and Stiles didn’t know it was physically possible to feel his blood pounding in his veins, but it is. “I would love to go on a real date with you.”

“Goodnight kiss?” Stiles suggests, too tongue-tied to get more words out.

Scott narrows the gap between them and presses his lips to Stiles’ cheek, like always. “Practice date goodnight kiss,” he whispers, breath ghosting against Stiles like a promise. “Have to wait for the real date to get the real thing.”*

 

*(For their first actual date that is them and no pretense, Stiles takes Scott on an afternoon picnic in a secluded part of their campus and they go for a leisurely stroll where Stiles very nearly gets attacked by a goose, only to be rescued because of Scott’s alpha eyes. And they go have milkshakes at their local diner so that they can get home when night falls and kiss under the glow of a crescent moon and their security light. The kiss is soft and loving and joyous and they move in sync, hands tightening around each other’s bodies like they’re never going to let go.)


	41. (Not) Deaged Scott

Stiles thinks Scott’s been deaged. Look, it’s a thing that’s happened before. Supernatural shenanigans are nothing new. And this little brown haired boy looks a lot like the one he grew up with. Almost perfect. Maybe he’s a bit pointier? Pale in the way Scott is in the dead of winter, even though it’s the height of summer. 

And sure, he doesn’t answer to Scott or Scotty, constantly wrinkling up his face and saying his name’s Ben, asking Stiles plaintively why he doesn’t remember. But he’s a mini-McCall, he has to be. 

So Stiles takes him under his wing and protects him. Takes him away from the Preserve back to his house. Installs him in his room with all of Scott’s favorite foods as he paces nervously around. He doesn’t flinch or worry when baby!Scott calls him dad.

Yes, it’s weird that being deaged didn’t mean Scott was defanged. 

Yes, it’s strange that Stiles’ phone just vibrated with a message from Scott’s number. 

Yes, it’s bizarre as hell that there’s an adult Scott walking into his room who is clearly in his late 20s, early 30s, with longer hair styled into a loose bun and glasses, oh my God. 

“Ben,” this other Scott says, just as Stiles watches himself trip into the room. The other him is watching him with wide eyes and an open mouth. The other him is muscular in a way Stiles has never dreamed about becoming. “God, thank you for taking care of our son.”

Stiles’ Scott, so clearly Stiles’s Scott rushes in next, expression mirroring exactly how Stiles is feeling. 

“Did you say our as in yours, as in Scott Too Hot and Strongman Stiles have a child together?” Stiles asks before any other questions, like ‘the hell is going on?’ can fight their way out of his mouth. 

The older version of himself raises an eyebrow and then points finger guns in his direction. “Good to see you decided to rock up the day the brain factory had a fire sale, Junior,” he intones, clearly mocking. But then he strokes his hand against little Scott - no - Ben’s head, so gently, his eyes going soft. “Missed you, kiddo.”

And Stiles and his Scott share a look of tightly controlled brain-breakage.


	42. Sacrifice

The nemeton requires a sacrifice. But not death. Not blood. Not anymore. It demands something more complex than that. It tells Scott, over and over, that he has to give his powers to the people in his pack in order to restore balance. Having a True Alpha is inviting disorder, inviting challenge. 

Scott decides to give his extra strength to Hayden and Malia. He knows they will use it responsibly, that it won’t be too much for them, that it will work well with the skills they already have. His sight he gives to Kira, because she already sees so much. His hearing he bestows to Lydia, because it will help filter the voices that haunt her. His speed goes to Liam and Mason, so that if they need to run, they can. Whether that’s toward danger or away from it will be up to them. 

He’s going to give his ability to heal to Stiles, but Stiles rejects it. 

“Allow me to drain pain instead,” Stiles says, voice quiet, eyes fixed. 

“I don’t think you understand how it works,” Scott answers back. “It hurts, to pull pain away from others, to keep it for yourself.”

“I understand,” Stiles says. “I want it anyway.”

Scott’s tired of arguing. He does what Stiles asks, even though it fills him with dread. 

He splits his healing powers with his mother, Stiles’ father, and Alan, instead. After a lot of convincing from his pack, he keeps some for himself.

The nemeton appears appeased. Supernatural foes begin to lessen. Scott starts to get used to being ‘normal’ again. It doesn’t stop him from fighting when he needs to. Doesn’t mean he walks away from what he considers his duty. He helps people whenever they need it, whenever he can.

His pack supports him, just as he supports them. They continue to work as a team.

And late at night, Stiles crawls into Scott’s room and lays a hand on his forearm, takes his anguish over not being able to do more, takes his sorrow at the injustice of others’ suffering, as well as the physical pain Scott harbors from having tried to do too much. Stiles takes his pain and says it’s no burden, because helping Scott in any way he can lightens the load.


	43. Respect not Affection

I’m all about Scott and Stiles being best friends forever and Stiles being given the opportunity to be better, and Scott forgiving him because that’s Scott (and there were reasons; though they’re not excuses, Scott still gets that the reasons have weight.)

BUT

But it would make sense if Stiles never apologized, and didn’t change his ways at all, and never recognized how damaging his behavior and his words could be, or recognized it but let the guilt fester and in turn that led to him being worse. 

It’d make sense if Scott finally had enough, couldn’t take it anymore, knew he shouldn’t, and slowly but surely distanced himself from Stiles, for his own peace of mind, because he deserved more.

Until they weren’t friends anymore. Not even close.

Except… except, even though they barely spoke, hardly spent time together outside of keeping Beacon Hills safe, they were both still there, keeping Beacon Hills safe. They each had their own sense of duty, their own inability to step away from the fight. 

There wouldn’t be friendship, but there’d be solidarity. Not much affection, but a grudging respect. 

And somehow, it would mean they worked together better than when they’d had what they termed a brotherhood. They trusted that they had each other’s back, but didn’t feel the need to sacrifice to the point of pushing one another out of the battle. It wasn’t about protecting the other because they were precious, it was about protecting each other together so they’d be a unified force. And it worked. Enemies were vanquished, antagonists were dealt with, their home town was safer.

Sometimes they’d remember what it used to be like, and share a knowing glance, or an entire silent conversation, but common interests had dwindled and they didn’t really enjoy each other’s company anymore. Maybe occasionally, they’d make each other laugh, or do something small and kind, but it was rare enough the effort didn’t seem worth it.

The people who knew who they’d been would always look sad when asked about them, but years would’ve gone by and there’d be no denying that even though the relationship they’d had before was broken, the current arrangement was effective. Cold, but clinical.

Until, until, God, some stupid petty argument that brought all the bitterness back, all the regret. The kind of thing where you couldn’t forget the vitriol, could never erase the impact. Something that made each of them want to tear the other apart.

So they did. But not by bringing up past faults and failures. Not with fists. 

With kisses that were more like firefights and gripping hands and tearing clothes. With Scott unraveling Stiles’ calm by sucking him down and hollowing him out. By Stiles coring a hole into Scott and pushing himself into all his carved out spaces. By them clashing again and again, furious with it, fevered. Bodies entwined, but constantly pulling, scratching and biting, causing a pain so deep it felt like pleasure.

Because the truth was, they didn’t like each other anymore, but they still _loved_ each other.


	44. What's it like, Mr. Wolf?

Think about all of Stiles’ questions about what it means to be a werewolf. Because you know he has them. You know there are things he wonders about; not because he wants to have those things himself, but because he’s curious. And they’ve built up over the years because there’s never been a nice, quiet time to ask them. 

“Do you still dream about murdering innocent little bunnies?” Stiles asks after Scott collapses on his bed and groans. He’s been working extra hard at the clinic, trying to make money in time for summer.

“I haven’t for a long time. I’ve gotten into a pattern where I eat rare steak if I’m feeling particularly bloodthirsty around Full Moon Madness. Why?”

Stiles brushes it off. “I was thinking about getting a pet.”

“Bunnies are vicious, don’t be fooled by their twitchy little noses and long soft ears. They’re not up for cuddles and will chew through all your electrical equipment.”

“You’re probably right,” Stiles says, blasé, and Scott knows he never once entertained the notion of keeping a small creature in a cage.

*

“If you could find the cure now, would you?” Stiles asks, serious and drawn, his eyes glinting in the darkness as they patrol the preserve.

“This isn’t something to be cured,” Scott replies. “I’m different than I was and that isn’t inherently bad or good. I know I’m not being controlled by a monster, not from without, not from within. So no. I don’t think so.” 

Stiles stares at him, but Scott only quickly glances to see something like admiration on his face.

*

“Do you practice howling? If so, can I stay and watch?”

*

“Can you smell it on me, when I… you know? Tingle my bingle?” Stiles asks one night when they’re playing Mario Kart. “I mean, I know, chemosignals, but you could mistake that for simple adrenaline, right?”

“I could tell even before I was a werewolf,” Scott says with a shrug and a wrinkled up nose. “You have a very distinctive odor and even if I couldn’t smell it, a single glance in your direction would tell me.” 

“Hmm,” Stiles answers, and leaves it at that.

*

Or so Scott thinks, but a week later there’s a clatter downstairs and then Stiles is tripping into his room. There’s a deep flush in the hollows of his cheeks, a laziness around his eyes, and he… yeah, he has definitely spent the morning in his own personal pleasure zone. It makes Scott’s heart beat in double time in reaction.

“Hey,” Stiles says, voice slightly roughened. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Studying. More than my dick, unlike you,” Scott says, and from Stiles’ open mouth and ducking head, he knows he’s passed the test. 

*

“Do you think you feel your arousal stronger now than you did when you were younger? Is it more like grrr, arrrgh, instinctual?”

“Nope. And before you ask if my dick has changed, the answer is yes, it’s gotten bigger, and I have no idea if that’s puberty or lycanthropy, but no, it isn’t more wolflike. Not even during the full moon.”

*

Then there’s the time Stiles asks him about whether the transformation hurts. 

“Not really, not anymore,” Scott says. “I guess it’s like when you first start playing sports or training or something, at first it hurts because you’re moving in ways you’re not used to, but after a while it’s natural, unremarkable. Aches sometimes, though, along my spine.”

“Is there anything I could do?” Stiles asks next, and this feels like a different kind of question from his usual idle curiosity.

“Kiss me better?” Scott says, as a joke. Not angry, but maybe a little tired of Stiles’ constant intrusions. Maybe exhausted feeling like he’s a research project when he wants Stiles to want to be with him, just because.

Stiles stops, blinks. “Is that something you really want?”

And Scott initially thought it wouldn’t be, but now that he’s considering it, and gazing at Stiles’ lips, and thinking about how much he’s enjoyed them being joined at the hip again lately, he realizes yes, it is. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he returns.

“Anything.”

“Is it something you really want? To kiss me. Even though I’m a wolf in boys’ clothing?”

“Dude, can’t you tell by now that I want to kiss you precisely because you’re a wolf in boys’ clothing?”

Scott falters, thinks about how he’s going to word his denial without breaking their friendship, how he can say “that’s not enough”, that if it’s because he’s a convenient creature of the night it’s not a step he wants them to take. He set Stiles up to fail, he knows. This feels too important not to provide a measure of protection.

“Though I guess that’s kind of a lie,” Stiles continues. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were eleven and you gave me your favorite lego minifigure when I came to school crying.“

“But the werewolf thing…”

“Makes it hotter, yeah. Sorry, Scotty. The combination of you and wolf just does things to me.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. Squints, like trying to solve a puzzle. “So. Is it something you want?”

In answer, Scott steps forward, into Stiles’ space, and tilts his head up the fraction necessary to get their lips in alignment. He pulls Stiles close into the trunk of his body and waits. 

Stiles is surprisingly gentle as he cradles Scott’s jaw and kisses him. He’s soft as he licks at the seam of his lips. He’s careful as he holds him close and warm. 

*

A while later, Stiles is almost trembling. They’ve progressed to the bed and their kisses have alternated between languorous and frantic. 

“One last question,” Stiles says.

“Really?”

“No. You know me. But the last one for a bit, because I don’t think I’ll have higher brain functions any time soon.” Stiles takes Scott’s hand and places it on his chest, where there’s a steady, staccato drumming. “Can you feel what you do to me?”

Scott’s answer is to mirror him. “It’s the same thing you do to me.”

*

“I lied earlier,” Stiles murmurs in the middle of the night. “But I have to know if you have a more than human stamina.”

“I might do, but somehow I’m doubting that means I have a more than you stamina,” Scott yawns back. “Please go to sleep.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna test your theory?”

“Stiles.”

“I love you, Scott.”

“I love you too.”

“But you love sleep more.”

Scott groans into his pillow. “Just shhhh.”


	45. Critical Otter Pop Failure

Stiles didn’t know it was possible that an Otter Pop could become so frozen it’d stick to any surface. That just didn’t seem like a viable, realistic conundrum a nineteen year old could find themselves in. It was only supposed to occur with metal, right? Flagpoles? Not confectionery designed specifically for contact with mouths. Maybe he should’ve pushed the iced pop up from the plastic before trying to take a bite, but he’d literally always eaten them like this, crunching down on the plastic to propel the sugar ice into his mouth.

It turned out, it was totally possible to freeze an Otter Pop to the point it’d adhere itself to your lips and tongue, and somehow, miraculously, be difficult to pull away without ripping off half your skin.

And Stiles had been knocked unconscious several times, and paralyzed, maimed in various tender parts of his body, but he had never felt pain quite like this. It’d might’ve also been the humiliation.

He cupped his hands around the treat, trying to generate enough heat to unstick it, but it didn’t want to budge. He tried pulling again, rocking it up and down, but nope, no dice, it just waggled. He tried to be patient, but that’d never been his strong suit.

He barged into Scott’s room. Scott glanced up at him from his sitting position on his bed with an unconcerned frown and Stiles gestured at the otter pop furiously.

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

Stiles said, “Scott! Use your wolfy senses to notice my anxiety!”, but it came out as, “Mmmahhh! Uh uhh uuu-err uu-u ooouh uhhh uhhh uh uhhierhhheee,” which sucked.

Somehow, Scott managed to decipher it, because he frowned. “Are you… is your tongue stuck?”

Stiles gestured louder.

“How do you even survive without me?” Scott said, fond exasperation evident in every word and step he took Stiles’ way. He walked close and examined the Otter Pop from multiple angles.

“You want my quick solution or my quickest?”

“Uh-eh!”

“Okay, then.”

Scott cradled Stiles’ jaw and tilted his head to the side. He proceeded to lick at Stiles’ top lip and then his lower one, working his tongue against the seam of the Otter Pop plastic and Stiles. Stiles felt himself physically heat up, his nerves a heady rush of excitement, confusion, joy, and arousal.

The Otter Pop slipped free, hardly noticed by either Stiles or Scott.

Scott stroked his fingers against Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles felt all pain, even that not caused by the Otter Pop Incident, draining away.

Scott brushed his finger over Stiles’ lips next, looking for all the world like he was thinking of tasting them. “There are less convoluted ways of getting me to kiss you.”

Stiles shook his head. “This was entirely accidental.”

Scott backed away immediately. “Oh.”

Stiles grasped hold of his hands before he could move too far. “But a happy accident, as it happens. The best accident. Simultaneously the dumbest and smartest thing I’ve ever done.” He cocked his head to the side, licked his still-cold lips. “Will you kiss me better?”

Scott’s smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “All right, but if we get stuck, I’m blaming you.”

“If we get stuck I’m gonna assume someone put a spell on me and it wasn’t even close to a curse.”

This kiss, a real kiss, wasn’t only warm enough to melt ice. It was _hot_.


	46. Halloween Costume not!fic

So. SOOOOO. You just know that Scott’s the kind of guy to quietly but firmly stand up for a person’s right to express their affection without being ascribed a label, and Stiles will do anything he possibly can out of spite. Like, Corey – sweet, naive Corey – will say something like, “you two are always cuddling, are you sure you aren’t into each other?” and Scott will give him the disappointed eyes and talk for a long time about how vital it is that boys and young men should be allowed to be openly affectionate without it automatically being linked to their sexuality, and Stiles will follow his lead but more caustically and with some vicious pointing.

And Scott means it, of course he does, but ALSO he’s 900% sure Stiles is bi, but not for him, just as he knows _he’s_ bi and definitely for Stiles. It’s a shitty situation. 

To prove Corey wrong, Scott and Stiles get even handsier with each other. They twine their fingers together when they’re at the movie theater. Sit with their legs in each other’s laps when they’re conducting serious pack business. Or, you know, having a lowkey get together with pizza and poprocks. Their handshake gains another six moves, one of which is a nose brush. Stiles takes to ruffling his fingers through Scott’s hair and whispering secrets against his cheek. Scott will comment on how good Stiles smells, snuffling into the thin skin below his ear. They sometimes kiss the backs of each other’s hands. 

Scott covets their touches, hoards every memory of them, and though he knows Stiles will be his best friend for life, even if he tells him the truth and admits his feelings, he doesn’t want to make everything awkward, doesn’t want Stiles to think he’d be leading him on with a hug or an arm slung around his shoulders. Scott doesn’t think he could handle more distance between them now that he has Stiles back. It’s been over a year, but still not long enough.

And then, and then, it’s the first of October, and Stiles is like, “We should go maximum Halloween as a fuck you to the real ghosts and ghouls.”

And Scott can’t see the harm in finding happiness and silliness in trivial things, not now that his life is relatively, blessedly stable. 

“I bought your costume!” Stiles says one night two weeks later, sliding a carrier bag across their kitchen counter. 

Scott opens it up and blinks at the tight-looking Captain America one-piece. It’s too stretchy to be a onesie, not solid enough to be an actual film prop.

“Is this a wetsuit?”

“Yeah, it’s all I could get last minute. Apparently all genuine Cap costumes sold out in March.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t decide if I should be Tony, Peggy, Bucky or Natasha.”

“Don’t you wanna be Batman?”

“Dude, we can’t cross the Marvel and DC streams, it’s sacrilege.”

“Fine, then, don’t you wanna be Deadpool?”

Stiles stares at him as if he’s insane. “Tell, me, Scott, you wanna see me rocking some red lipstick or red hair, a goatee, or a silver arm?”

Scott imagines a combination of them all, gets lost in the visual image for a little while. The thing that holds the most of his attention is Stiles in a domino mask with aluminum foil wrapped around his already impressive bicep.

“You should be Bucky, if you want. Best friends since childhood, you know?”

“Hmm,” Stiles says, and Scott remembers how Stiles talked at length about Steve and Bucky’s star-crossed love, because amazingly, Stiles was still a romantic beneath that crunchy exterior. 

OF COURSE the party night comes and they’re dressed up looking amazing, though Scott feels a little constricted and on display. Stiles is all kinds of hot with eyeliner and a glittering arm, a frankly terrible wig, and black duct tape pretending to be leather straps. 

And they’re supposed to be circulating the party separately, as the hosts, but they keep gravitating toward each other. Plus, Stiles apparently has learned how to lindy hop specifically for this night and insists on whirling Scott around their make-shift dance floor, even though everyone knows Scott can’t dance. At one point, Stiles’ hand slides down Scott’s back and rests in the dip just above his ass and Scott reminds himself he doesn’t suffer from asthma anymore, his chest should not be feeling that tight.

Late into the night, when all their 100% human-only friends have gone home and the pack are lounging around, having cleaned up half the mess and left half for the next day, Corey pulls Scott aside, into Scott’s room. 

“I know you all think I’m the dumb one, but you and Stiles? I’m not imagining that. And Stiles is literally the only person in this apartment who can’t hear your heartbeat or pick up on your chemosignals. Tell him how you feel.”

“How do you feel, Scott?” Stiles asks, sliding round the corner, eyeliner smudged, wig missing, and metal arm unraveling. 

Corey disappears and Scott can hear him walking out of the bedroom.

“Like I’m with you to the end of the line,” Scott says, honestly, because he’s tired and heartsick, but also hopeful, and maybe, just maybe, Stiles has been cozying up to him not only because he likes to prove a point, not just because he was backing Scott up, but because he revels in the touch as much as Scott does.

Perhaps Scott’s always been so close to Stiles, he can’t see him the way the others can, can’t read him right – because he’s always had that note of affection in his scent, that kick in his heart, that baseline of adoration. 

Stiles stalks forward, stretches his hand out against Scott’s chest. “Thank fuck, because Scott, you gotta know… I…” Stiles stops, shakes his head, looks at Scott now with his eyes bright. “You were right, guys should be able to hug without someone automatically assuming they’re in love. But I can’t be that example. I wanna spend my whole life touching you because I love you. Being with you gives my life meaning.”

Scott encloses Stiles in his arms, kisses him like he’s been dreaming about for the longest time. He steps closer into the vee of Stiles’ legs, tangles a hand up into his hair, tugs him where he wants him. He’s breathing deeply when they finally pull apart.

“I love you too,” Scott says, hushed, because he might give Stiles’ life meaning, but Stiles is his entire world.


	47. oh the weather outside is frightful

Scott’s asthma has gotten worse over the past week and Stiles doesn’t have a name for the feeling he gets in his chest when Scott starts to cough, it’s such a combination of terror, protectiveness, and plain anger. Scott’s been his best friend more than half his life and lately, recently, that’s started to mean he’s in his thoughts a lot. Some of those thoughts seem really, really inappropriate. They’re his favorite. 

When Scott asks to borrow Stiles’ hoodie, Stiles agrees immediately, because he knows the cold exacerbates Scott’s asthma, and he’s been overly warm, bouncing around from rock to rock.

Stiles doesn’t expect the physical reaction he has when he sees Scott swaddled in deep blue fleece, sleeves over his knuckles and hem at his thighs. Scott hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, though his voice has gotten deeper. He doesn’t look like a little kid, though. More like a tiny teenager. And yeah, Stiles knows it’s mostly only in contrast, because he’s been shooting up like a weed since they were eleven. But still. Scott is so small and vulnerable looking. 

Stiles just wants to eat him up.

They get to their place, their childhood haunt, a crusty old sawn-off tree trunk in the middle of the preserve. Scott immediately sits down and tucks his arms around himself.

“Still cold?” Stiles asks.

Scott shrugs. “A little. You?”

“Same.”

Scott tugs at the hem of the hoodie and it’s halfway up his chest before Stiles halts his hands. “No, man, you keep it.”

He can’t explain precisely why he wants Scott to keep it, only that the nasty, possessive streak he’s never bothered to tamp down is currently cruising through his entire body, making his pulse beat thick and fast. 

“But you’re cold too.” 

Stiles is startlingly aware he’s still holding Scott’s hands and he can feel blood rushing up his neck to his face. “Snuggle!” he blurts, mentally wincing at his nerdiness.

“What?”

“We’re both cold, we should sit close together to preserve body heat.”

“Of course that’s what you were saying with those two syllables,” Scott replies dryly. He pulls on Stiles’ fingers, tugs him insistently until he’s sitting close by on the log, then wraps his arm around his back. “This what you had in mind?”

Stiles’ heart is in his throat. This is totally what he’s had in mind, though usually with fewer clothes between them. 

He makes a muffled sound of assent. 

They’re supposed to be studying, it’s why they came out here, to the calm and quiet, but the backpack lies on the ground untouched, and they sit for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of nature. 

“Can I tell you something?” Scott asks, shattering the silence.

“Always.”

Scott turns until they’re facing each other. “I wasn’t that cold.”

Stiles processes that for a moment, wondering if Scott’s admitting what he thinks he is. If so, he’s the bravest person Stiles has ever met. He stares off into the middle distance, wondering if he can match his courage.He can feel Scott stiffen alongside him, start to pull away.

“I, er, I’ve never done anything like this before,” Stiles says, reaching out and holding onto the front of his hoodie, keeping Scott in place. 

“I know. I figured you’d’ve told me, in detail. But. I mean, I haven’t either,” Scott replies. He’s ducked his head, is talking to the leaf litter rather than to Stiles. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and Stiles swallows thickly. 

“You wanna try?” he asks, voice gone husky.

Scott answers with an action rather than words, with a rise into Stiles’ space and warm lips against his own. The kiss is chaste and gentle, and God, everything Stiles imagined when he allowed himself. When they pull apart Scott gazes at him with unchecked affection and Stiles thinks he probably looks as stunned as he feels.

“More?”

Stiles slides one of his hands up under his hoodie and strokes against Scott’s warm skin. He dips down and meets him in the middle. They kiss until their lips are red and the sky is pink. They kiss until a breeze picks up and they start to shiver. They kiss and kiss like they’re the only two people in the world, and for that moment, they are.


	48. Kissing in the Library

They’re up against the stacks, because Scott said he had to study, and Stiles pretended to agree with him so he could ambush him and have his dastardly way. 

He gets that doing well at school is Scott’s current main goal for a better life. That Scott seems to think education is paramount. He gets that it’s important to him, so he doesn’t want to devalue or mock it. Not, like, constantly. 

But also, he’s aware that Scott already knows this material, backwards, forwards, side to side. He doesn’t need to keep cramming. He needs some Goddamned rest and relaxation. Or. Not so much relaxation. Or rest, for that matter. 

He needs some Goddamned heart-racing romance, is what he needs.

So they’re up against the stacks, and if Scott didn’t want to be there, they wouldn’t be, but Scott stopped murmuring about losing his place in his textbook nine minutes ago, when Stiles started sucking a mark at his neck, above his collar. 

Scott’s still muttering, but they’re sweet-sounding curses, like he’s damning and praising Stiles in equal measure. His dick’s pressing hard against Stiles’ thigh and one of his hands is scrabbling against the top of Stiles’ head, and he’s right where Stiles wants him, caught up in the moment. 

Stiles gives one final lick against what he knows will be a red and mottled tattoo of his claim on Scott, and rocks back on his heels to admire his mouth-work. 

It’s sad it’s going to be gone in three minutes flat. It’s a thing of beauty. 

Scott’s studying him when he gazes up into his eyes, irises limned in red. He thumbs against Stiles’ lips and strokes against his tongue. 

“You’re a menace,” he says, light-voiced, affected. He slides his hand away from Stiles’s mouth, to the hinge of his jaw, tilts his head so he can kiss him, deep and possessive.

Fuck, if it isn’t the hottest he’s ever been. Stiles feels shaky on his knees. If they’re not careful he’s gonna be a sticky mess, and look, he may have limited shame, but this fits into it, sadly.

They pull apart eventually, and Stiles immediately looks down at Scott’s neck, sure he’s going to see smooth, unblemished, beautiful brown skin. He wants to pout over it. Wants to plan, to barter, to use it as leverage for suggesting they skip the study session and go home. 

But there it is, the lovebite, his mark. 

“I’m keeping it,” Scott says, decisively. “For as long as I can.”

“And you _call me_ the fuckin’ menace,” Stiles replies, shaking his head, so in love he aches.


	49. Almost Kissing

They’re thirteen, and Scott’s sure his crush on Stiles is unrequited, but sometimes Stiles looks at him like he’s the last slice of pie, the ticking of the minute hand a second before home time, or his favorite destination, and Scott wonders: maybe?

So he asks Stiles over for the night, with mostly innocent intentions. More because he wants to spend time with him. Not because he has designs. (But. He has designs. He just doesn’t have the words to articulate them yet.) 

Stiles arrives, a flurry of too-long limbs, and they eat their respective body weights in junk food while watching Tim Burton’s Batman. Scott’s half-watching, anyway. He’s more intent on listening to Stiles’ running commentary and gazing at his long, elegant fingers swirling shapes in the air.

It’s late enough that it’s actually early morning, and Stiles is getting sleepy, and Scott’s been building his courage for minutes now. He’s leaning in, has wet his lips, is about to land a kiss because he doesn’t know how to say what he wants.

And Stiles blinks at him, says, “did you see Lydia today? I swear she smiled at me, bro,” while Scott’s heart shrivels up and settles in his stomach.

*

They’re fourteen, and Stiles has started to notice that Scott looks good all the time. When he’s falling asleep, when he’s wide awake, when he’s talking to Stiles about something he loves, when he’s talking about something he hates, when he’s smiling, even when he’s crying. He’s beautiful.

Stiles has an uncomfortable minute immediately after he thinks that, then he shrugs and goes about his day. It makes sense. Scott’s the best person he knows apart from his dad. He’s got a perfect face. Of course Stiles would find him attractive. 

He isn’t going to do anything about it.

Or so he thinks.

Because, okay, maybe Stiles has always had this plan for his life. It hasn’t previously included being in love with his best friend. But he’s flexible, open to changes. 

“You wanna practice kissing?” he asks Scott one day, because he’s been focused on his lips for a full half-hour and he wants to know what they feel like against his own.

“Haha,” Scott replies, “I know you’re bored, but I’m a paper away from an A in this class, so you’ll have to use your jokes on someone else.”

Jokes, right.

“I think it’s really sad you prioritize learning over me, your best friend.”

“Learning wants me for more than my body,” Scott returns, blasé. “It also wants to consume my mind and soul.”

Stiles can’t say the ‘me too’ that echoes around his brain.

*

They’re fifteen, and Stiles has been jokingly flirting with him for so long, Scott’s given up feeling heartsick over it. 

Today feels different, somehow. They’re tucked up together on Scott’s couch under a fluffy blanket, watching While You Were Sleeping, sharing a glass of eggnog. Stiles bought him a lacrosse stick for Christmas – one of the more expensive ones, with Scott’s name engraved. His present to Stiles was tickets to All Time Low. Stiles kissed his cheek under the mistletoe.

Stiles has been stroking the back of Scott’s hand absentmindedly, playing with his knuckles.

“I hope we’re like this in twenty years’ time,” Scott murmurs, wondering how sweet the eggnog would be when licked directly off Stiles’ cupid’s bow.

“Yeah, dude, your kids and my kids running around each other as we sit with our wives, too full of food and buzzed because we’re drunk. It’ll be awesome.”

Scott turns back to the movie. He knew it was too good to be true.

*

They’re sixteen, and Scott wants to tear Stiles limb from limb. Wants to consume him, heart and all. Wants to kiss him until his lips are bloody and bruised.

He kisses Lydia instead.

*

They’re seventeen, and they’re in love with different people, but that doesn’t mean Stiles has stopped being in love with Scott. He doesn’t think it’s possible. Once you fall for Scott McCall, you’re always falling for him, physics be damned. 

Stiles misses when they used to have downtime. When their combined greatest concerns were unsightly acne, asthma and adhd. The worst thing is that they still have those concerns. 

The moon shines bright above and Scott stares at it, looking for all the world like he thinks it’s lovely. Stiles wonders how he can do that, how he can forgive something that’s caused him so much pain, can still admire its merits.

In the still and the quiet, Stiles breathes in slow and deep and imagines a world that’s been kinder to Scott. He’s not sure he’s in it.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, suddenly, breaking the silence.

Stiles exhales. “Yeah,” he lies, despite knowing Scott will be able to see through the artifice. “You?”

He doesn’t expect the soft smile Scott graces him with, the patience in his gaze. 

“For once. For now.”

Stiles feels a prickle up his spine as they continue to stare at one another, can hear his heart begin kicking like a bass drum pedal against his rib cage. 

He thinks, perhaps.

There’s a howl from somewhere in the distance and he springs into action, hops off the Jeep, blowing on his hands for something to do. He hopes his anxiety and quicksilver surge of shame is explained away by the reason they’re out here, by the fact he’s clearly been distracted from their task of protecting Beacon Hills. It wouldn’t’ve been fair to anyone if he’d done what he’d been thinking about, but he still regrets not taking the chance. 

It’s funny, always being on the verge of dying, you see all the choices laid out before you, yet somehow you’re still too chickenshit to risk the ones you’ve made.

*

They’re eighteen and Stiles wants to admit to his feelings, without truly knowing the reason why, as if something in his amygdala has picked up on something the rest of his brain is refusing to process. 

He reaches out, tries to form the words, chokes over his too-large tongue, and Scott gentles him with, “tell me later.”

*

They’re almost nineteen, and they’ve been apart for seven months. Scott encloses his arms around Stiles like he’s never going to let go. He might not. He might choose to stay wrapped around him forever. They could learn to live with it. People learn to live with a lot of things that at first might seem like hindrances. 

“I missed you, buddy.”

“I missed you so much and I didn’t even know you existed,” Scott counters, tightening his grip. “Everything felt wrong and I couldn’t reason why. It was like permanently having a song stuck in my head and never knowing the title or the lyrics.”

Stiles squirms in his hold and Scott worries for a second he’s squeezing him too tight, or that he wants out, but then there’s a hand stroking softly through his hair and Stiles muttering something sweet-sounding into his shoulder.

Scott tilts back, frowns at Stiles. “What’d you say?”

“I said the title is I Will Always Love You and the lyrics are the same,” Stiles confesses, pink-faced. 

He’s endearingly embarrassed. As jokes go, it was pretty cheesy and pathetic, but Scott scans Stiles in a way he never consciously has before and he realizes: it wasn’t a joke. 

It’s a startling revelation. turns everything Scott’s ever thought he’s known on its head. 

“Really?” he asks, because he can feel Stiles’ heart beating in tandem with his own, but he still needs confirmation.

“Of course, Scotty,” Stiles says, gaze tender and warm. 

“How would you react if I kissed you right now?”

“I’d kiss you back.”

Scott can feel himself smiling, his chest loosening, his hands sliding until they’re on Stiles’ hips. He pulls Stiles flush to his body and tilts his head up to capture his mouth in a kiss. 

Before it can land, there’s a knock at the door.

Scott startles, considers moving away, but Stiles places a hand at his lower back and urges him closer.

“Leave it,” he pleads. “I’ve been waiting for this for too long.”

“You have? _I_ have.”

Stiles grins, too genuine to look smug, but clearly proud. He caresses Scott’s neck, cocks his head to the side.

They kiss while still smiling. It’s a little awkward, but everything Scott has ever wanted, ever needed. They kiss, hot and wet and perfect. 

And Scott thinks, _yes_.


	50. Eggolas

They name their baby Eggolas. Stiles’ choice. Scott draws their little face and Stiles isn’t just being a proud parent in thinking he and Scott have the cutest baby in Home Ec. Scott gave Eggolas wide brown eyes so like his own, and a sharp upturned nose like Stiles’. Eggolas is smiling like they’re keeping a secret, and from clever pen-work, they have chubby cheeks and an adorable chin. Even Coach comments on how gosh darn darling the “S-squared” egg is, full of harassed scorn. 

The thing about this whole ordeal is that Stiles probably wouldn’t be bothering about it, honestly he has larger eggs to fry, but it’s so obvious to him that Scott wants to do well. Scott seems to think it’s imperative that Eggolas be the best looked after itty bitty egg child that year. And Stiles has Scott’s back, always. 

So he becomes more of a doting dad type than he ever imagined he’d be. He’s hyper vigilant, keeping Eggolas in his sight whenever they’re in his care. He follows the routine Scott stipulated, not commenting on how weird it is that they’re mock-feeding food itself. He doesn’t complain when Scott suggests they spend the night together, just rocks up to Scott’s with an extra egg carton laid with soft tissue paper, elaborately decorated in Elvish. 

“It’s beautiful, dude,” Scott says with a grin. “Eggolas will love it.”

They have to do a write-up of what it’s like being a parent and they split each section so they’re writing a couple paragraphs each. They edit together, with Scott picking up on Stiles’ flagrant misuse of commas and Stiles picking up on Scott’s accidental repetition. 

Reading through Scott’s hopes and fears, Stiles feels his heart beat a little slower but harder. Scott’s so candid, raw in explaining how he doesn’t want to be like his own father, in how he’s worried he’d slip into the same bad habits.

“You’re nothing like Rafael, you know,” Stiles says, quiet but emphatic. “You never have been.”

“People change,” Scott says, rubbing his tattoo like he does when he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m sure dad had the best intentions once upon a time.”

“People change,” Stiles agrees. “And you, Scotty, every day you’re changing for the better. You can recognize where your dad went wrong. You care so much about getting it right. You’ll do your best and it’ll be… you’ll be incredible. Just look at how well Liam’s doing. Mason. Malia. You’re already ten times the man, twenty times the mentor your dad has ever been.”

Scott ducks his head, peers up at Stiles from beneath his lashes. “Thank you,” he says, sincerely. “That means a lot coming from you.”

Stiles is going to wave him away, but the timer for Eggolas’ bed time feed pings in the quiet night air.

Throughout the night they stick to the routine, taking turns to check on Eggolas as if they were a real child, waking up all hours because they need food, love and companionship. At 4 am, Scott joins Stiles on the couch. 

“Can’t sleep?”

“I know I’m overreacting,” Scott says. “I know this is a stupid assignment. You go to sleep, I’ll take over.”

“Are you kidding?,” Stiles says. “When this is real, I’m gonna be by your side every step of the way.”

Scott strokes a hand over his wrist. “When this is real?”

Maybe it’s because everything seems intangible, ethereal, in the dark of early morning. Perhaps Stiles is tired of only ever speaking in half-truths. 

“I’m not saying you have to have a kid with me,” Stiles says, swallowing as he rocks Eggolas from side to side. “But in the future, if it was a thing you could imagine yourself having, I’d be with you.”

“Just because you wanna share parenting duties?”

“Just because I wanna share everything. Just because I’m crazy over you. Just because I’m yours, if you want.”

“Stiles, I think Eggolas is ready to nap again,” Scott says gently. It’s… a kind of answer, Stiles supposes. Not the one he wanted, not what he’d have hoped for. 

At least now he’s been honest. At least now he knows.

Stiles settles Eggolas in their egg carton crib, is about to give Scott the ‘don’t worry, this doesn’t have to change a thing, we’re best bros for life’ speech, when Scott’s pushing him into the back of the couch and kissing him with a kind of pent-up passion Stiles has never even guessed he could harbor. 

“The answer to the question you’ve never asked me is yes, Stiles,” Scott says, breathless. He settles his hand against Stiles’ chest, rubs at his clavicle. 

“Wanna make babies with me, Scotty?” Stiles asks a second before claiming another kiss.

Scott opens up for it, wet and filthy, then tilts his head to the side. “One day,” he admits. “But that wasn’t the question.”

“Wanna practice making babies?”

“Stiles.”

“Do you feel the same way about me that I feel about you?

Scott’s eyes are alight with mischief. “I already told you.” 

Stiles thinks for a second that Scott’s going to leave it there, but he should know better, Scott’s never knowingly cruel. Scott kisses him a couple more times; tender, lingering. 

“I love you,” Scott says. 

“Oh good,” Stiles replies. “Because I love you too. Almost as much as I love our small child.”

“You threatened to scramble Eggolas before you saw how serious I was.”

“In an ‘aww you’re so cute I wanna eat you up’ kinda way.”

“I very much doubt it was that, you had a look of intense hunger in your e—”

Stiles interjects. “Do you wanna keep arguing or would you prefer to make out?”

Scott settles the conversation with pushing Stiles down into the cushions and kissing him senseless.


	51. Ink-stained Heart

He gets a small castle, crumbling at its crenellation, one side broken down into wrack and ruin, a spade and bucket nearby. It’s on his torso, near his heart. The inks are pastels and ethereal, like they come from another world. 

The fire was so hot he can feel the phantom burn to this day, had to be zip-tied down as Mason held the torch against his skin, his eyes watering in sympathy. 

“You haven’t been to the beach since you were eleven,” his mom says with a slight frown.

“Are you planning on moving closer?” Liam asks. His anxiety radiates. “5 hours is a long drive. I don’t know often I co– _we_ could go.”

“It isn’t about the beach,” Scott says. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

 _It isn’t about the beach, but what is it about, Scott?_ a voice asks him. He would have preferred it to have been Malia rather than his own internal monologue: the one that doesn’t sound like him, is too staccato and husky. 

“I don’t know,” Scott says out loud with a shrug. “I just like it.”

He got it in a place where he can’t look at it easily, though. He only gazes in the mirror when he has to. He’s tired of seeing his wearied face, the darkness in his eyes, the stories painted in the furrow of his brow. 

“Is it about being an Alpha?” Malia asks. “King of the castle?”

No. That doesn’t sit right. 

He slides his fingers over it sometimes, digs his nails in others, like maybe the pain will help him remember. Lift the fog that makes him forget.

He Skypes Lydia but doesn’t tell her about the tattoo and can’t rationalize why. She might have been able to shed some light on it, using her banshee powers, or by recalling something he’s told her but not his Mom, not Alan. The question sits at the back of his throat. 

And then the Ghostriders come into town. It feels like deja vu. There are no records of them having been there before, but there’s a prickle under Scott’s skin, an evocation from their scent, like salt on the earth after heavy rain, like singed flesh after electrocution. 

One whips him, the cord slashing at his shirt, tearing the fabric, ripping a hole. The Ghostrider stops, head tilting to the side. Staring. 

It advances, crowds Scott into the wall, kneels and bows its head down in front of him, in supplication. 

Scott’s heart is racing, his mind churning, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what’s going on. Yet, he’s compelled to put his hand at the Ghostrider’s chin, draw his face up, all cracked and broken. The Ghostrider stretches fingers up and strokes against Scott’s tattoo. 

It’s a flash, overwhelming and Scott would stumble back if there weren’t bricks behind him.

“Stiles?”

And in a voice that seems to echo from nowhere, that sounds disused and rusty, but so like the voice in his head;- “Scotty.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [wood and string](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656672) by [detectivemeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer)




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